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THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

kerchief  twitched  in  her  fingers.  When  the  clock 
struck  six,  he  got  up,  and  went  to  the  door.  Then 
he  turned  back,  and  looked  at  her.  Their  eyes 
met.  In  hers  he  saw  a  wild  appeal  for  mercy. 
It  enraged  him. 

"  Mother,  I  have  something  to  ask  you,"  he 
said.  Her  eyes  wandered  vaguely  about  the  room. 
She  made  no  answer.  "  Tell  me  the  truth.  I 
have  a  right  to  know.  Were  you  married  to  my 
father  ?  " 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  It  was  a  sigh  of  relief. 
The  terrible  moment,  the  moment  that  night  and 
day,  for  weeks  and  months,  she  had  dreaded,  had 
come  at  last,  and  yet  she  felt  no  terror.  Indeed 
in  some  measure  it  was  a  disappointment  to  her. 
The  vulgar  directness  of  the  question  called  for  a 
direct  answer.  The  situation  had  not  been  gradually 
led  up  to.  It  was  crude.  It  reminded  her  of  a  bad 
rehearsal. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  wondering  at  the  harsh 
simplicity  of  life. 

"  My  father  was  a  scoundrel  then  ! "  cried  the  lad, 
clenching  his  fists. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  knew  he  was  not  free. 
We  loved  each  other  very  much.  If  he  had  lived, 
he  would  have  made  provision  for  us.  Don't  speak 
against  him,  my  son.  He  was  your  father,  and  a 
gentleman.     Indeed  he  was  highly  connected." 

An  oath  broke  from  his  lips.  "  I  don't  care  for 
myself,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  don't  let  Sibyl.  .  .  . 
104 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

It  is  a  gentleman,  isn't  it,  who  is  in  love  with  her, 
or  says  he  is  ?     Highly  connected,  too,  I  suppose." 

For  a  moment  a  hideous  sense  of  humiliation 
came  over  the  woman.  Her  head  drooped.  She 
wiped  her  eyes  with  shaking  hands.  "  Sibyl  has  a 
mother,"  she  murmured  ;  "  I  had  none." 

The  lad  was  touched.  He  went  towards  her, 
and  stooping  down  he  kissed  her.  "  I  am  sorry  if 
I  have  pained  you  by  asking  about  my  father," 
he  said,  "  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  must  go  now. 
Good-bye.  Don't  forget  that  you  will  have  only  one 
child  now  to  look  after,  and  believe  me  that  if  this 
man  wrongs  my  sister,  I  will  find  out  who  he  is, 
track  him  down,  and  kill  him  like  a  dog.  I  swear 
it." 

The  exaggerated  folly  of  the  threat,  the  pas- 
sionate gesture  that  accompanied  it,  the  mad 
melodramatic  words,  made  life  seem  more  vivid  to 
her.  She  was  familiar  with  the  atmosphere.  She 
breathed  more  freely,  and  for  the  first  time  for 
many  months  she  really  admired  her  son.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  continued  the  scene  on 
the  same  emotional  scale,  but  he  cut  her  short. 
Trunks  had  to  be  carried  down,  and  mufflers 
looked  for.  The  lodging-house  drudge  bustled  in 
and  out.  There  was  the  bargaining  with  the  cab- 
man. The  moment  was  lost  in  vulgar  details.  It 
was  with  a  renewed  feeling  of  disappointment  that 
she  waved  the  tattered  lace  handkerchief  from  the 
window,  as  her  son  drove  away.  She  was  conscious 
105 


.■^Wi^SeATSVWrSSiW;.^...-.'!-*' -«•  .,   ■  >?-:.  CM.''.iiJ-g'r:<s.  a^>  >.■-'--.'    r:j  ..^.^ 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


From  the  library 

of 
James  D.  Hart 


The  p.ictvr^  of  J^ 

D0P4AN.CR§Y  .  ^ 

OcTCAR^ 


UD  N  D  O  M  gJ^  E  W yO  K^C      ^^ 


The  Pf\EFAcE 


nr^  HE  artist  is  the  creator  of  beautiful  things. 

To  reveal  art  and  conceal  the  artist  is  arfsy 
aim. 
The  critic  is  he  who  can   translate  into  another 
manner  or   a    new   material  his   impression  of 
beautiful  things. 

The  highest  as  the  lowest  form  of  criti- 
cism is  a  mode  of  autobiography. 
Those    who  find    ugly    meanings    in    beautiful  «■ 
things    are    corrupt    without    being    charming. 
This   is   a  fault. 


Those  who  find  beautiful  meajiings 
in  beautiftil  things  are  the  cultivated. 
For  these  there  is  hope. 
They  are   the   elect  to  ivhofu   beautiful  thifigs 
mean  only  Beauty. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  moral  or  an 
immoral  book.     Books  are   well  ivritte7ty 
or  badly  ivritten.     That  is  all. 
The  nineteenth  cejitury  dislike  of  Realism  is  the 
rage  of  Caliban  seeing  his  own  face  iii  a  glass. 
The    nineteeiith    centtiry    dislike    of 
Romanticism  is  the  rage  of  Caliban 
not  seeing  his  own  face  in  a  glass. 
The  moral  life  of  man  forms  part  of  the 
subject-matter  of  the  artist^  but  the  morality 
of  art  consists  in  the  perfect  use  of  an  im- 
perfect meditim. 
No    artist   desires  to  prove   anything.     Even 
things  that  are  true  can  be  proved. 

No    artist    has    etJiical   sympathies.     An 
^     ethical  sympathy  in   an  artist  is  an  un- 
pardonable mannerism  of  style. 

No  artist  is  ever  morbid.     The  artist 
can  express  everything. 
Thought    and    language  are    to   the    artist 
instruments  of  a7i  art. 

Vice  and  virttie  are  to  the  artist  materials 
for  an  art. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  form^  the  type  of  all 
the  arts  is  the  art  of  the  musician.      From   the 
vi 


point  of  vieiv  of  feeling,  the  actor's  craft  is  the 
type. 

All    art    is   at   once    surface    and 
symbol. 
T J  lose  zvho  go  beneath  the  surface  do  so  at 
their  peril. 

Those   who   read  the   symbol  do  so  at 
their  peril 
It  is  the  spectator,  and  not  life,  that  art  really 
mirrors. 

Diversity  of  opinion  about  a  zvork  of  art 
shows  that  the  work  is  new,  complex,  and 
vital. 

When  critics  disagree  the  artist  is  in  accord 
with  himself. 
We  can  forgive  a  man  for  making  a  tiseful 
thing  as  long  as  he  does  not  admire  it.  The 
only  excuse  for  making  a  useless  thing  is  that 
one  admires  it  intensely. 

All  art  is  quite  ziseless. 


O  j-cAB^  Vs^'lde 


9 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  studio  was  filled  with  the  rich  odour  of 
roses,  and  when  the  light  summer  wind 
stirred  amidst  the  trees  of  the  garden  there  came 
through  the  open  door  the  heavy  scent  of  the  lilac, 
or  the  more  delicate  perfume  of  the  pink-flowering 
thorn. 

From  the  corner  of  the  divan  of  Persian  saddle- 
bags on  which  he  was  lying,  smoking,  as  was  his 
custom,  innumerable  cigarettes, Lord  Henry  Wotton 
could  just  catch  the  gleam  of  the  honey-sweet  and 
honey-coloured  blossoms  of  a  laburnum,  whose 
tremulous  branches  seemed  hardly  able  to  bear  the 
burden  of  a  beauty  so  flame-like  as  theirs ;  and 
now  and  then  the  fantastic  shadows  of  birds  in 
flight  flitted  across  the  long  tussore-silk  curtains 
that  were  stretched  in  front  of  the  huge  window, 
producing  a  kind  of  momentary  Japanese  effect, 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

and  making  him  think  of  those  pallid  jade-faced 
painters  of  Tokio  who,  through  the  medium  of  an 
art  that  is  necessarily  immobile,  seek  to  convey  the 
sense  of  swiftness  and  motion.  The  sullen  murmur 
of  the  bees  shouldering  their  way  through  the  long 
unmown  grass,  or  circling  with  monotonous  insis- 
tence round  the  dusty  gilt  horns  of  the  straggling 
woodbine,  seemed  to  make  the  stillness  more 
oppressive.  The  dim  roar  of  London  was  like  the 
bourdon  note  of  a  distant  organ. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  clamped  to  an  upright 
easel,  stood  the  full-length  portrait  of  a  young  man 
of  extraordinary  personal  beauty,  and  in  front  of  it, 
some  little  distance  away,  was  sitting  the  artist 
himself,  Basil  Hallward,  whose  sudden  disappear- 
ance some  years  ago  caused,  at  the  time,  such 
public  excitement,  and  gave  rise  to  so  many 
strange  conjectures. 

As  the  painter  looked  at  the  gracious  and  comely 
form  he  had  so  skilfully  mirrored  in  his  art,  a  smile 
of  pleasure  passed  across  his  face,  and  seemed  about 
to  linger  there.  But  he  suddenly  started  up,  and, 
closing  his  eyes,  placed  his  fingers  upon  the  lids, 
as  though  he  sought  to  imprison  within  his  brain 
some  curious  dream  from  which  he  feared  he  might 
awake. 

"  It  is  your  best  work,  Basil,  the  best  thing  you 
have  ever  done,"  said  Lord  Henry,  languidly.  "  You 
must  certainly  send  it  next  year  to  the  Grosvenor. 
The  Academy  is  too  large  and  too  vulgar.     When- 

2 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

ever  I  have  gone  there,  there  have  been  either  so 
many  people  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  the 
pictures,  which  was  dreadful,  or  so  many  pictures 
that  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  the  people,  which 
was  worse.  The  Grosvenor  is  really  the  only 
place." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  send  it  anywhere,"  he 
answered,  tossing  his  head  back  in  that  odd  way 
that  used  to  make  his  friends  laugh  at  him  at 
Oxford.     "  No  :  I  won't  send  it  anywhere." 

Lord  Henry  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and  looked 
at  him  in  amazement  through  the  thin  blue  wreaths 
of  smoke  that  curled  up  in  such  fanciful  whorls 
from  his  heavy  opium- tainted  cigarette.  "Not 
send  it  anywhere  ?  My  dear  fellow,  why  ?  Have 
you  any  reason  ?  What  odd  chaps  you  painters 
are !  You  do  anything  in  the  world  to  gain  a 
reputation.  As  soon  as  you  have  one,  you  seem  to 
want  to  throw  it  away.  It  is  silly  of  you,  for  there 
is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  worse  than  being 
talked  about,  and  that  is  not  being  talked  about. 
A  portrait  like  this  would  set  you  far  above  all  the 
young  men  in  England,  and  make  the  old  men 
quite  jealous,  if  old  men  are  ever  capable  of  any 
emotion." 

"  I  know  you  will  laugh  at  me,"  he  replied,  "  but 
I  really  can't  exhibit  it.  I  have  put  too  much  of 
myself  into  it" 

Lord  Henry  stretched  himself  out  on  the  divan 
and  laughed. 

3 


THE  PiCTVkE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  you  would  ;  but  it  is  quite  true,  all 
the  same." 

"  Too  much  of  yourself  in  it !  Upon  my  word, 
Basil,  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  vain  ;  and  I 
really  can't  see  any  resemblance  between  you,  with 
your  rugged  strong  face  and  your  coal-black  hair, 
and  this  young  Adonis,  who  looks  as  if  he  was 
made  out  of  ivory  and  rose-leaves.  Why,  my  dear 
Basil,  he  is  a  Narcissus,  and  you — well,  of  course 
you  have  an  intellectual  expression,  and  all  that. 
But  beauty,  real  beauty,  ends  where  an  intellectual 
expression  begins.  Intellect  is  in  itself  a  mode  of 
exaggeration,  and  destroys  the  harmony  of  any 
face.  The  moment  one  sits  down  to  think,  one 
becomes  all  nose,  or  all  forehead,  or  something 
horrid.  Look  at  the  successful  men  in  any  of  the 
learned  professions.  How  perfectly  hideous  they 
are  !  Except,  of  course,  in  the  Church.  But  then 
in  the  Church  they  don't  think.  A  bishop  keeps 
on  saying  at  the  age  of  eighty  what  he  was  told  to 
say  when  he  was  a  boy  of  eighteen,  and  as  a  natural 
consequence  he  always  looks  absolutely  delightful. 
Your  mysterious  young  friend,  whose  name  you 
have  never  told  me,  but  whose  picture  really  fasci- 
nates me,  never  thinks.  I  feel  quite  sure  of  that. 
He  is  some  brainless,  beautiful  creature,  who  should 
be  always  here  in  winter  when  we  have  no  flowers 
to  look  at,  and  always  here  in  summer  when  we  want 
something  to  chill  our  intelligence.  Don't  flatter 
yourself,  Basil :  you  are  not  in  the  least  like  him.' 

4 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,  Harry,"  answered 
the  artist.  "  Of  course  I  am  not  like  him.  I  know 
that  perfectly  well.  Indeed,  I  should  be  sorry  to 
look  like  him.  You  shrug  your  shoulders  ?  I  am 
telling  you  the  truth.  There  is  a  fatality  about  all 
physical  and  intellectual  distinction,  the  sort  of 
fatality  that  seems  to  dog  through  history  the 
faltering  steps  of  kings.  It  is  better  not  to  be 
different  from  one's  fellows.  The  ugly  and  the 
stupid  have  the  best  of  it  in  this  world.  They  can 
sit  at  their  ease  and  gape  at  the  play.  If  they 
know  nothing  of  victory,-  they  are  at  least  spared 
the  knowledge  of  defeat.  They  live  as  we  all 
should  live,  undisturbed,  indifferent,  and  without 
disquiet.  They  neither  bring  ruin  upon  others, 
nor  ever  receive  it  from  alien  hands.  Your  rank 
and  wealth,  Harry  ;  my  brains,  such  as  they  are — 
my  art,  whatever  it  may  be  worth ;  Dorian  Gray's 
good  looks — we  shall  all  suffer  for  what  the  gods 
have  given  us,  suffer  terribly." 

"  Dorian  Gray  }  Is  that  his  name  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Henry,  walking  across  the  studio  towards  Basil 
Hallward. 

"  Yes,  that  is  his  name.  I  didn't  intend  to  tell 
it  to  you." 

"  But  why  not }  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  explain.  When  I  like  people  im- 
mensely I  never  tell  their  names  to  any  one.  It  is 
like  surrendering  a  part  of  them.  I  have  grown 
to  love  secrecy.     It  seems  to  be  the  one  thing  that 

5 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

can  make  modern  life  mysterious  or  marvellous  to 
us.  The  commonest  thing  is  delightful  if  one  only 
hides  it.  When  I  leave  town  now  I  never  tell  my 
people  where  I  am  going.  If  I  did,  I  would  lose 
all  my  pleasure.  It  is  a  silly  habit,  I  dare  say,  but 
somehow  it  seems  to  bring  a  great  deal  of  romance 
into  one's  life.  I  suppose  you  think  me  awfully 
foolish  about  it  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  "  not  at  all, 
my  dear  Basil.  You  seem  to  forget  that  I  am 
married,  and  the  one  charm  of  marriage  is  that  it 
makes  a  life  of  deception  absolutely  necessary  for 
both  parties.  I  never  know  where  my  wife  is,  and 
my  wife  never  knows  what  I  am  doing.  When  we 
meet — we  do  meet  occasionally,  when  we  dine  out 
together,  or  go  down  to  the  Duke's — we  tell  each 
other  the  most  absurd  stories  with  the  most  serious 
faces.  My  wife  is  very  good  at  it — much  better, 
in  fact,  than  I  am.  She  never  gets  confused  over 
her  dates,  and  I  always  do.  But  when  she  does 
find  me  out,  she  makes  no  row  at  all.  I  sometimes 
wish  she  would  ;  but  she  merely  laughs  at  me." 

"  I  hate  the  way  you  talk  about  your  married 
life,  Harry,"  said  Basil  Hallward,  strolling  towards 
the  door  that  led  into  the  garden.  "  I  believe  that 
you  are  really  a  very  good  husband,  but  that  you 
are  thoroughly  ashamed  of  your  own  virtues.  You 
are  an  extraordinary  fellow.  You  never  say  a 
moral  thing,  and  you  never  do  a  wrong  thing. 
Your  cynicism  is  simply  a  pose," 

6 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  Being  natural  is  simply  a  pose,  and  the  most 
irritating  pose  I  know,"  cried  Lord  Henry,  laugh- 
ing ;  and  the  two  young  men  went  out  into  the 
garden  together,  and  ensconced  themselves  on  a  long 
bamboo  seat  that  stood  in  the  shade  of  a  tall 
laurel  bush.  The  sunlight  slipped  over  the 
polished  leaves.  In  the  grass,  white  daisies  were 
tremulous. 

After  a  pause,  Lord  Henry  pulled  out  his  watch. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going,  Basil,"  he  murmured, 
"  and  before  I  go,  I  insist  on  your  answering  a 
question  I  put  to  you  some  time  ago." 

"  What  is  that  ? "  said  the  painter,  keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  You  know  quite  well." 

"  I  do  not,  Harry." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  want  you  to 
explain  to  me  why  you  won't  exhibit  Dorian  Gray's 
picture.     I  want  the  real  reason." 

*'  I  told  you  the  real  reason." 

"  No,  you  did  not.  You  said  it  was  because 
there  was  too  much  of  yourself  in  it.  Now,  that 
is  childish." 

"  Harry,"  said  Basil  Hallward,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face,  "  every  portrait  that  is  painted 
with  feeling  is  a  portrait  of  the  artist,  not  of  the 
sitter.  The  sitter  is  merely  the  accident,  the  occa- 
sion. It  is  not  he  who  is  revealed  by  the  painter  ; 
it  is  rather  the  painter  who,  on  the  coloured  canvas, 
reveals  himself     The  reason  I  will  not  exhibit  this 

7 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

picture  is  that  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  shown  in  it 
the  secret  of  my  own  soul." 

Lord  Henry  laughed.  "  And  what  is  that  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Hallward  ;  but  an  ex- 
pression of  perplexity  came  over  his  face. 

"  I  am  all  expectation,  Basil,"  continued  his 
companion,  glancing  at  him. 

"  Oh,  there  is  really  very  little  to  tell,  Harry," 
answered  the  painter ;  "  and  I  am  afraid  you  will 
hardly  understand  it.  Perhaps  you  will  hardly 
believe  it." 

Lord  Henry  smiled,  and,  leaning  down,  plucked 
a  pink-petalled  daisy  from  the  grass,  and  examined 
it.  "  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  understand  it,"  he 
replied,  gazing  intently  at  the  little  golden  white- 
feathered  disk,  "  and  as  for  believing  things,  I  can 
believe  anything,  provided  that  it  is  quite  in- 
credible." 

The  wind  shook  some  blossoms  from  the  trees, 
and  the  heavy  lilac-blooms,  with  their  clustering 
stars,  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  languid  air.  A 
grasshopper  began  to  chirrup  by  the  wall,  and  like 
a  blue  thread  a  long  thin  dragon-fly  floated  past  on 
its  brown  gauze  wings.  Lord  Henry  felt  as  if  he 
could  hear  Basil  Hallward's  heart  beating,  and 
wondered  what  was  coming. 

"  The  story  is  simply  this,"  said  the  painter  after 
some  time.  "  Two  months  ago  I  went  to  a  crush 
at  Lady  Brandon's.  '  You  know  we  poor   artists 

8 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

have  to  show  ourselves  in  society  from  time  to 
time,  just  to  remind  the  public  that  we  are  not 
savages.  With  an  evening  coat  and  a  white  tie,  as 
you  told  me  once,  anybody,  even  a  stock-broker, 
can  gain  a  reputation  for  being  civilized.  Well, 
after  I  had  been  in  the  room  about  ten  minutes, 
talking  to  huge  overdressed  dowagers  and  tedious 
Academicians,  I  suddenly  became  conscious  that 
some  one  was  looking  at  me.  I  turned  half-way 
round,  and  saw  Dorian  Gray  for  the  first  time. 
When  our  eyes  met,  I  felt  that  I  was  growing  pale. 
A  curious  sensation  of  terror  came  over  me.  I  knew 
that  I  had  come  face  to  face  with  some  one  whose 
mere  personality  was  so  fascinating  that,  if  I  allowed 
it  to  do  so,  it  would  absorb  my  whole  nature,  my 
whole  soul,  my  very  art  itself.  I  did  not  want  any 
external  influence  in  my  life.  You  know  yourself, 
Harry,  how  independent  I  am  by  nature.  I  have 
always  been  my  own  master  ;  had  at  least  always 

been  so,  till  I  met  Dorian  Gray.     Then but 

I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it  to  you.  Something 
seemed  to  tell  me  that  I  was  on  the  verge 
of  a  terrible  crisis  in  my  life.  I  had  a  strange 
feeling  that  Fate  had  in  store  for  me  exqui- 
site joys  and  exquisite  sorrows.  I  grew  afraid, 
and  turned  to  quit  the  room.  It  was  not  con- 
science that  made  me  do  so  :  it  was  a  sort  of 
cowardice.  I  take  no  credit  to  myself  for  trying 
to  escape." 

"  Conscience  and  cowardice  are  really  the  same  « 
9 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

things,  Basil.  Conscience  is  the  trade-name  of  the 
firm.     That  is  all." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,  Harry,  and  I  don't  believe 
you  do  either.  However,  whatever  was  my  motive 
— and  it  may  have  been  pride,  for  I  used  to  be  very 
proud — I  certainly  struggled  to  the  door.  There, 
of  course,  I  stumbled  against  Lady  Brandon.  '  You 
are  not  going  to  run  away  so  soon,  Mr.  Hall  ward  ?  ' 
she  screamed  out.  You  know  her  curiously  shrill 
voice  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  a  peacock  in  everything  but  beauty," 
said  Lord  Henry,  pulling  the  daisy  to  bits  with  his 
long,  nervous  fingers, 

"  I  could  not  get  rid  of  her.  She  brought  me  up 
to  Royalties,  and  people  with  Stars  and  Garters, 
and  elderly  ladies  with  gigantic  tiaras  and  parrot 
noses.  She  spoke  of  me  as  her  dearest  friend.  I 
had  only  met  her  once  before,  but  she  took  it  into 
her  head  to  lionize  me.  I  believe  some  picture  of 
mine  had  made  a  great  success  at  the  time,  at  least 
had  been  chattered  about  in  the  penny  newspapers, 
which  is  the  nineteenth-century  standard  of  immor- 
tality. Suddenly  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with 
the  young  man  whose  personality  had  so  strangely 
stirred  me.  We  were  quite  close,  almost  touching. 
Our  eyes  met  again.  It  was  reckless  of  me,  but 
I  asked  Lady  Brandon  to  introduce  me  to  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  so  reckless,  after  all.  It  was 
simply  inevitable.  We  would  have  spoken  to  each 
other  without  any  introduction.     I  am  sure  of  that. 

10 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Dorian  told  me  so  afterwards.  He,  too,  felt  that 
we  were  destined  to  know  each  other." 

"  And  how  did  Lady  Brandon  describe  this 
wonderful  young  man  ? "  asked  his  companion.  "  I 
know  she  goes  in  for  giving  a  rapid  precis  of  all 
her  guests.  I  remember  her  bringing  me  up  to  a 
truculent  and  red-faced  old  gentleman  covered  all 
over  with  orders  and  ribbons,  and  hissing  into  my 
ear,  in  a  tragic  whisper  which  must  have  been 
perfectly  audible  to  everybody  in  the  room,  the 
most  astounding  details.  I  simply  fled.  I  like  to 
find  out  people  for  myself.  But  Lady  Brandon 
treats  her  guests  exactly  as  an  auctioneer  treats 
his  goods.  She  either  explains  them  entirely  away, 
or  tells  one  everything  about  them  except  what  one 
wants  to  know." 

"  Poor  Lady  Brandon  !  You  are  hard  on  her, 
Harry  ! "  said  Hallward,  listlessly. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  she  tried  to  found  a  salon^ 
and  only  succeeded  in  opening  a  restaurant.  How 
could  I  admire  her?  But  tell  me,  what  did  she 
say  about  Mr.  Dorian  Gray  ?  " 

"  Oh,  something  like, '  Charming  boy — poor  dear 
mother  and  I  absolutely  inseparable.  Quite  forget 
what  he  does — afraid  he — doesn't  do  anything — 
oh,  yes,  plays  the  piano — or  is  it  the  violin,  dear 
Mr.  Gray?'  Neither  of  us  could  help  laughing, 
and  we  became  friends  at  once." 

"  Laughter  is  not  at  all  a  bad  beginning  for 
a   friendship,   and   it   is   far  the   best  ending  for 

u 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

one,"  said  the  young  lord,  plucking  another 
daisy. 

Hallvvard  shook  his  head.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand what  friendship  is,  Harry,"  he  murmured — 
"  or  what  enmity  is,  for  that  matter.  You  like 
every  one  ;  that  is  to  say,  you  are  indifferent  to 
every  one." 

"  How  horribly  unjust  of  you  ! "  cried  Lord 
Henry,  tilting  his  hat  back,  and  looking  up  at  the 
little  clouds  that,  like  ravelled  skeins  of  glossy  white 
silk,  were  drifting  across  the  hollowed  turquoise  of 
the  summer  sky.  "  Yes  ;  horribly  unjust  of  you. 
I  make  a  great  difference  between  people.  I  choose 
my  friends  for  their  good  looks,  my  acquaintances 
for  their  good  characters,  and  my  enemies  for  their 
good  intellects.  A  man  cannot  be  too  careful  in 
the  choice  of  his  enemies.  I  have  not  got  one  who 
is  a  fool.  They  are  all  men  of  some  intellectual 
power,  and  consequently  they  all  appreciate  me. 
Is  that  very  vain  of  me  ?  I  think  it  is  rather 
vain." 

"  I  should  think  it  was,  Harry.  But  according  to 
your  category  I  must  be  merely  an  acquaintance." 

"  My  dear  old  Basil,  you  arc  much  more  than  an 
acquaintance." 

"  And  much  less  than  a  friend.  A  sort  of  brother, 
I  suppose  ? " 

"  Oh,  brothers  !  I  don't  care  for  brothers.  My 
elder  brother  won't  die,  and  my  younger  brothers 
seem  never  to  do  anything  else." 

12 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

"  Harry  !  "  exclaimed  Hallvvard,  frowning. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  not  quite  serious.  But  I 
can't  help  detesting  my  relations.  I  suppose  it 
comes  from  the  fact  that  none  of  us  can  stand 
other  people  having  the  same  faults  as  ourselves. 
I  quite  sympathize  with  the  rage  of  the  English  ' 
democracy  against  what  they  call  the  vices  of  the 
upper  orders.  The  masses  feel  that  drunkenness, 
stupidity,  and  immorality  should  be  their  own 
special  property,  and  that  if  any  one  of  us  makes 
an  ass  of  himself  he  is  poaching  on  their  preserves. 
When  poor  Southwark  got  into  the  Divorce  Court, 
their  indignation  was  quite  magnificent.  And  yet 
I  don't  suppose  that  ten  per  cent,  of  the  proletariat 
live  correctly." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  a  single  word  that  you  have 
said,  and,  what  is  more,  Harry,  I  feel  sure  you  don't 
either." 

Lord  Henry  stroked  his  pointed  brown  beard, 
and  tapped  the  toe  of  his  patent-leather  boot  with 
a  tasselled  ebony  cane.  "  How  English  you  are 
Basil !  That  is  the  second  time  you  have  made 
that  observation.  If  one  puts  forward  an  idea  to 
a  true  Englishman — always  a  rash  thing  to  do — 
he  never  dreams  of  considering  whether  the  idea  is 
right  or  wrong.  The  only  thing  he  considers  of 
any  importance  is  whether  one  believes  it  one- 
self. Now,  the  value  of  an  idea  has  nothing  what- 
soever to  do  with  the  sincerity  of  the  man  who 
expresses  it     Indeed,  the  probabilities  are  that  the 

13 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

more  insincere  the  man  is,  the  more  purely  intel- 
lectual will  the  idea  be,  as  in  that  case  it  will  not 
be  coloured  by  either  his  wants,  his  desires,  or  his 
prejudices.  However,  I  don't  propose  to  discuss 
politics,  sociology,  or  metaphysics  with  you.  I  like 
persons  better  than  principles,  and  I  like  persons 
with  no  principles  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  Tell  me  more  about  Mr.  Dorian  Gray. 
How  often  do  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Every  day.  I  couldn't  be  happy  if  I  didn't  see 
him  every  day.    He  is  absolutely  necessary  to  me." 

"  How  extraordinary  !  I  thought  you  would 
never  care  for  anything  but  your  art." 

"  He  is  all  my  art  to  me  now,"  said  the  painter, 
gravely.  "  I  sometimes  think,  Harry,  that  there 
are  only  two  eras  of  any  importance  in  the  world's 
history.  The  first  is  the  appearance  of  a  new 
medium  for  art,  and  the  second  is  the  appearance 
of  a  new  personality  for  art  also.  What  the  in- 
vention of  oil-painting  was  to  the  Venetians,  the 
face  of  Antinoiis  was  to  late  Greek  sculpture,  and 
the  face  of  Dorian  Gray  will  some  day  be  to  me. 
It  is  not  merely  that  I  paint  from  him,  draw  from 
him,  sketch  from  him.  Of  course  I  have  done  all 
that.  But  he  is  much  more  to  me  than  a  model  or 
a  sitter.  I  won't  tell  you  that  I  am  dissatisfied 
with  what  I  have  done  of  him,  or  that  his  beauty 
is  such  that  Art  cannot  express  it.  There  is 
nothing  that  Art  cannot  express,  and  I  know  that 
the  work  I  have  done,  since  I  met  Dorian  Gray,  is 

14 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

good  work,  is  the  best  work  of  my  life.  But  in 
some  curious  way — I  wonder  will  you  understand 
me  ? — his  personality  has  suggested  to  me  an 
entirely  new  manner  in  art,  an  entirely  new  mode 
of  style.  I  see  things  differently,  I  think  of  them 
differently.  I  can  now  recreate  life  in  a  way  that 
was  hidden  from  me  before.  '  A  dream  of  form  in 
days  of  thought : ' — who  is  it  who  says  that }  I 
forget ;  but  it  is  what  Dorian  Gray  has  been  to 
me.  The  merely  visible  presence  of  this  lad — for 
he  seems  to  me  little  more  than  a  lad,  though  he  is 
really  over  twenty — his  merely  visible  presence — 
ah  !  I  wonder  can  you  realize  all  that  that  means  ? 
Unconsciously  he  defines  for  me  the  lines  of  a 
fresh  school,  a  school  that  is  to  have  in  it  all  the 
passion  of  the  romantic  spirit,  all  the  perfection  of 
the  spirit  that  is  Greek.  The  harmony  of  soul  and 
body — how  much  that  is  !  We  in  our  madness 
have  separated  the  two,  and  have  invented  a 
realism  that  is  vulgar,  an  ideality  that  is  void. 
Harry !  if  you  only  knew  what  Dorian  Gray  is  to 
me  !  You  remember  that  landscape  of  mine,  for 
which  Agnevv  offered  me  such  a  huge  price,  but 
which  I  would  not  part  with }  It  is  one  of  the 
best  things  I  have  ever  done.  And  why  is  it  so  } 
Because,  while  I  was  painting  it,  Dorian  Gray  sat 
beside  me.  Some  subtle  influence  passed  from  him 
to  me,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  in 
the  plain  woodland  the  wonder  I  had  always  looked 
for,  and  always  missed." 

15 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Basil,  this  is  extraordinary  !  I  must  sec  Dorian 
Gray." 

Hall  ward  got  up  from  the  seat,  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  garden.  After  some  time  he  came 
back.  "  Harry,"  he  said,  "  Dorian  Gray  is  to  me 
simply  a  motive  in  art.  You  might  see  nothing  in 
him.  I  see  everything  in  him.  He  is  never  more 
present  in  my  work  than  when  no  image  of  him  is 
there.  He  is  a  suggestion,  as  I  have  said,  of  a  new 
manner.  I  find  him  in  the  curves  of  certain  lines, 
in  the  loveliness  and  subtleties  of  certain  colours. 
That  is  all." 

"  Then  why  won't  you  exhibit  his  portrait  ? " 
asked  Lord  Henry. 

"  Because,  without  intending  it,  I  have  put  into  it 
some  expression  of  all  this  curious  artistic  idolatry, 
of  which,  of  course,  I  have  never  cared  to  speak  to 
him.  He  knows  nothing  about  it.  He  shall  never 
know  anything  about  it.  But  the  world  might  guess 
it ;  and  I  will  not  bare  my  soul  to  their  shallow, 
prying  eyes.  My  heart  shall  never  be  put  under 
their  microscope.  There  is  too  much  of  myself 
in  the  thing,  Harry — too  much  of  myself!" 

"  Poets  are  not  so  scrupulous  as  you  are.  They 
know  how  useful  passion  is  for  publication.  Now- 
adays a  broken  heart  will  run  to  many  editions." 

"  I  hate  them  for  it,"  cried  Hallward.  "  An 
artist  should  create  beautiful  things,  but  should 
put  nothing  of  his  own  life  into  them.  We  live  in 
an  age  when  men  treat  art  as  if  it  were  meant  to 

i6 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

be  a  form  of  autobiography.  We  have  lost  the 
abstract  sense  of  beauty.  Some  day  I  will  show 
the  world  what  it  is  ;  and  for  that  reason  the 
wt)rld  shall  never  see  my  portrait  of  Dorian  Gray." 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,  Basil,  but  I  won't  argue 
with  you.  It  is  only  the  intellectually  lost  who 
ever  argue.  Tell  me,  is  Dorian  Gray  very  fond  of 
you  ?  " 

The  painter  considered  for  a  few  moments.  "  He 
likes  me,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause  ;  "I  know  he 
likes  me.  Of  course  I  flatter  him  dreadfully.  I 
find  a  strange  pleasure  in  saying  things  to  him 
that  I  know  I  shall  be  sorry  for  having  said.  As 
a  rule,  he  is  charming  to  me,  and  we  sit  in  the 
studio  and  talk  of  a  thousand  things.  Now  and 
then,  however,  he  is  horribly  thoughtless,  and  seems 
to  take  a  real  delight  in  giving  me  pain.  Then  I 
feel,  Harry,  that  I  have  given  away  my  whole 
soul  to  some  one  who  treats  it  as  if  it  were  a 
flower  to  put  in  his  coat,  a  bit  of  decoration 
to  charm  his  vanity,  an  ornament  for  a  summer's 
day." 

"  Days  in  summer,  Basil,  are  apt  to  linger," 
murmured  Lord  Henry.  "  Perhaps  you  will  tire 
sooner  than  he  will.  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  think  of, 
but  there  is  no  doubt  that  Genius  lasts  longer  than 
Beauty.  That  accounts  for  the  fact  that  we  all 
take  such  pains  to  over- educate  ourselves.  In  the 
wild  struggle  for  existence,  we  want  to  have  some- 
thing that  endures,  and  so  we  fill  our  minds  with 

17  c 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

rubbish  and  facts,  in  the  silly  hope  of  keeping  our 
place.  The  thoroughly  well-informed  man — that 
is  the  modern  ideal.  And  the  mind  of  the 
thoroughly  well-informed  man  is  a  dreadful  thin^. 
It  is  like  a  bric-a-brac  shop,  all  monsters  and  dust, 
with  everything  priced  above  its  proper  value.  I 
think  you  will  tire  first,  all  the  same.  Some  day 
you  will  look  at  your  friend,  and  he  will  seem  to 
you  to  be  a  little  out  of  drawing,  or  you  won't  like 
his  tone  of  colour,  or  something.  You  will  bitterly 
reproach  him  in  your  own  heart,  and  seriously  think 
that  he  has  behaved  very  badly  to  you.  The  next 
time  he  calls,  you  will  be  perfectly  cold  and  in- 
different. It  will  be  a  great  pity,  for  it  will  alter 
you.  What  you  have  told  me  is  quite  a  romance, 
a  romance  of  art  one  might  call  it,  and  the  worst 
of  having  a  romance  of  any  kind  is  that  it  leaves 
one  so  unromantic." 

"  Harry,  don't  talk  like  that.  As  long  as  I  live, 
the  personality  of  Dorian  Gray  will  dominate  me. 
You  can't  feel  what  I  feel.  You  change  too 
often." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Basil,  that  is  exactly  why  I  can 
feel  it.  Those  who  are  faithful  know  only  the  trivial 
side  of  love :  it  is  the  faithless  who  know  love's 
tragedies."  And  Lord  Henry  struck  a  light  on  a 
dainty  silver  case,  and  began  to  smoke  a  cigarette 
with  a  self-conscious  and  satisfied  air,  as  if  he  had 
summed  up  the  world  in  a  phrase.  There  was  a 
rustle  of  chirruping  sparrows  in  the  green  lacquer 

i8 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

leaves  of  the  ivy,  and  the  blue  cloud-shadows 
chased  themselves  across  the  grass  like  swallows. 
How  pleasant  it  was  in  the  garden  !  And  how 
delightful  other  people's  emotions  were  ! — much 
more  delightful  than  their  ideas,  it  seemed  to  him. 
One's  own  soul,  and  the  passions  of  one's  friends — 
those  were  the  fascinating  things  in  life.  He  pic- 
tured to  himself  with  silent  amusement  the  tedious 
luncheon  that  he  had  missed  by  staying  so 
long  with  Basil  Hallward.  Had  he  gone  to  his 
aunt's,  he  would  have  been  sure  to  have  met  Lord 
Goodbody  there,  and  the  whole  conversation  would 
have  been  about  the  feeding  of  the  poor,  and  the 
necessity  for  model  lodging-houses.  Each  class 
would  have  preached  the  importance  of  those 
virtues,  for  whose  exercise  there  was  no  necessity 
in  their  own  lives.  The  rich  would  have  spoken 
on  the  value  of  thrift,  and  the  idle  grown  eloquent 
over  the  dignity  of  labour.  It  was  charming  to 
have  escaped  all  that !  As  he  thought  of  his  aunt, 
an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him.  He  turned  to 
Hallward,  and  said,  "  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  just 
remembered." 

"  Remembered  what,  Harry  ?  " 

"  Where  I  heard  the  name  of  Dorian  Gray." 

"  Where  was  it  ?  "  asked  Hallward,  with  a  slight 
frown. 

"  Don't  look  so  angry,  Basil.  It  was  at  my 
aunt.  Lady  Agatha's.  She  told  me  she  had  dis- 
covered a  wonderful  young  man,  who  was  going 

19 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

to  help  her  in  the  East  End,  and  that  his  name  was 
Dorian  Gray.  I  am  bound  to  state  that  she  never 
told  me  he  was  good-looking.  Women  have  no 
appreciation  of  good  looks ;  at  least,  good  women 
have  not.  She  said  that  he  was  very  earnest,  and 
had  a  beautiful  nature.  I  at  once  pictured  to 
myself  a  creature  with  spectacles  and  lank  hair, 
horribly  freckled,  and  tramping  about  on  huge 
feet.     I  wish  I  had  known  it  was  your  friend." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  didn't,  Harry." 

"  Why .? " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  meet  him." 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  meet  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Mr.  Dorian  Gray  is  in  the  studio,  sir,"  said  the 
butler,  coming  into  the  garden. 

"You  must  introduce  me  now,"  cried  Lord 
Henry,  laughing. 

The  painter  turned  to  his  servant,  who  stood 
blinking  in  the  sunlight.  "  Ask  Mr.  Gray  to  wait, 
Parker  :  I  shall  be  in  in  a  few  moments."  The  man 
bowed,  and  went  up  the  walk. 

Then  he  looked  at  Lord  Henry.  "  Dorian  Gray 
is  my  dearest  friend,"  he  said.  "  He  has  a  simple 
and  a  beautiful  nature.  Your  aunt  was  quite 
right  in  what  she  said  of  him.  Don't  spoil  him. 
Don't  try  to  influence  him.  Your  influence  would 
be  bad.  The  world  is  wide,  and  has  many  mar- 
vellous people  in  it.  Don't  take  away  from  me  the 
one  person  who  gives  to  my  art  whatever  charm  it 

20 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

possesses  :  my  life  as  an  artist  depends  on  him. 
Mind,  Harry,  I  trust  you."  He  spoke  very  slowly, 
and  the  words  seemed  wrung  out  of  him  almost 
against  his  will. 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk  !  "  said  Lord  Henry, 
smiling,  and,  taking  Hallward  by  the  arm,  he 
almost  led  him  into  the  house. 


21 


CHAPTER  II. 

AS  they  entered  they  saw  Dorian  Gray.  He 
was  seated  at  the  piano,  with  his  back  to 
them,  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  volume  ol 
Schumann's  "  Forest  Scenes."  "  You  must  lend 
me  these,  Basil,"  he  cried.  "  I  want  to  learn  them. 
They  are  perfectly  charming." 

"  That  entirely  depends  on  how  you  sit  to-day, 
Dorian." 

"  Oh,  I  am  tired  of  sitting,  and  I  don't  want  a 
life-sized  portrait  of  myself,"  answered  the  lad, 
swinging  round  on  the  music-stool,  in  a  wilful, 
petulant  manner.  When  he  caught  sight  of  Lord 
Henry,  a  faint  blush  coloured  his  cheeks  for  a 
moment,  and  he  started  up.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Basil,  but  I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  with 
you." 

"This  is  Lord  Henry  Wotton,  Dorian,  an  old 
Oxford  friend  of  mine.  I  have  just  been  telling 
him  what  a  capital  sitter  you  were,  and  now  you 
have  spoiled  everything." 

"  You  have  not  spoiled  my  pleasure  in  meeting 
you,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Lord  Henry,  stepping  forward 

22 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

and  extending  his  hand.  "  My  aunt  has  often 
spoken  to  me  about  you.  You  are  one  of  her 
favourites,  and,  I  am  afraid,  one  of  her  victims 
also." 

"  I  am  in  Lady  Agatha's  black  books  at  present," 
answered  Dorian,  with  a  funny  look  of  penitence. 
"  I  promised  to  go  to  a  club  in  Whitechapel  with 
her  last  Tuesday,  and  I  really  forgot  all  about  it. 
We  were  to  have  played  a  duet  together — three 
duets,  I  believe.  I  don't  know  what  she  will  say  to 
me.     I  am  far  too  frightened  to  call." 

"  Oh,  I  will  make  your  peace  with  my  aunt. 
She  is  quite  devoted  to  you.  And  I  don't  think  it 
really  matters  about  your  not  being  there.  The 
audience  probably  thought  it  was  a  duet.  When 
Aunt  Agatha  sits  down  to  the  piano  she  makes 
quite  enough  noise  for  two  people." 

"  That  is  very  horrid  to  her,  and  not  very  nice  to 
me,"  answered  Dorian,  laughing. 

Lord  Henry  looked  at  him.  Yes,  he  was 
certainly  wonderfully  handsome,  with  his  finely- 
curved  scarlet  lips,  his  frank  blue  eyes,  his  crisp 
gold  hair.  There  was  something  in  his  face  that 
made  one  trust  him  at  once.  All  the  candour  of 
youth  was  there,  as  well  as  all  youth's  passionate 
purity.  One  felt  that  he  had  kept  himself  un- 
spotted from  the  world.  No  wonder  Basil  Hallward 
worshipped  him. 

"  You  are  too  charming  to  go  in  for  philanthropy, 
Mr.  Gray— far  too  charming."     And  Lord  Henry 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

flung  himself  down  on  the  divan,  and  opened  his 
cigarette-case. 

The  painter  had  been  busy  mixing  his  colours 
and  getting  his  brushes  ready.  He  was  looking 
worried,  and  when  he  heard  Lord  Henry's  last 
remark  he  glanced  at  him,  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  "  Harry,  I  want  to  finish  this  picture 
to-day.  Would  you  think  it  awfully  rude  of  me  if 
I  asked  you  to  go  away  .? " 

Lord  Henry  smiled,  and  looked  at  Dorian  Gray. 
"  Am  I  to  go,  Mr.  Gray  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  please  don't.  Lord  Henry.  I  see  that  Basil 
is  in  one  of  his  sulky  moods ;  and  I  can't  bear  him 
when  he  sulks.  Besides,  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
why  I  should  not  go  in  for  philanthropy." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  tell  you  that,  Mr. 
Gray.  It  is  so  tedious  a  subject  that  one  would 
have  to  talk  seriously  about  it.  But  I  certainly 
shall  not  run  away,  now  that  you  have  asked  me  to 
stop.  You  don't  really  mind,  Basil,  do  you?  You 
have  often  told  me  that  you  liked  your  sitters  to 
have  some  one  to  chat  to." 

Hallward  bit  his  lip.  "  If  Dorian  wishes  it,  of 
course  you  must  stay.  Dorian's  whims  are  laws  to 
everybody,  except  himself" 

Lord  Henry  took  up  his  hat  and  gloves.  "  You 
are  very  pressing,  Basil,  but  I  am  afraid  I  must  go. 
I  have  promised  to  meet  a  man  at  the  Orleans. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Gray.  Come  and  see  me  some 
afternoon  in  Curzon  Street.     I  am  nearly  always 

24 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

at  home  at  five  o'clock.  Write  to  me  when  you  are 
coming.     I  should  be  sorry  to  miss  you." 

"  Basil,"  cried  Dorian  Gray,  "  if  Lord  Henry 
Wotton  goes  I  shall  go  too.  You  never  open  your 
lips  while  you  are  painting,  and  it  is  horribly  dull 
standing  on  a  platform  and  trying  to  look  pleasant. 
Ask  him  to  stay.     I  insist  upon  it." 

"  Stay,  Harry,  to  oblige  Dorian,  and  to  oblige 
me,"  said  Hallward,  gazing  intently  at  his  picture. 
"  It  is  quite  true,  I  never  talk  when  I  am  working, 
and  never  listen  either,  and  it  must  be  dreadfully 
tedious  for  my  unfortunate  sitters.  I  beg  you  to 
stay." 

"  But  what  about  my  man  at  the  Orleans  ?  " 

The  painter  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  there  will 
be  any  difficulty  about  that.  Sit  down  again, 
Harry.  And  now,  Dorian,  get  up  on  the  platform, 
and  don't  move  about  too  much,  or  pay  any 
attention  to  what  Lord  Henry  says.  He  has  a 
very  bad  influence  over  all  his  friends,  with  the 
single  exception  of  myself" 

Dorian  Gray  stepped  up  on  the  dais,  with  the  air 
of  a  young  Greek  martyr,  and  made  a  little  moue 
of  discontent  to  Lord  Henry,  to  whom  he  had 
rather  taken  a  fancy.  He  was  so  unlike  Basil. 
They  made  a  delightful  contrast.  And  he  had 
such  a  beautiful  voice.  After  a  few  moments  he 
said  to  him,  "  Have  you  really  a  very  bad  influence. 
Lord  Henry  ?     As  bad  as  Basil  says  ?  " 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  good  influence,  Mr. 
25 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

Gray.  All  influence  is  immoral — immoral  from 
the  scientific  point  of  view." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  to  influence  a  person  is  to  give  him 
one's  own  soul.  He  does  not  think  his  natural 
thoughts,  or  burn  with  his  natural  passions.  His 
virtues  are  not  real  to  him.  His  sins,  if  there  are 
such  things  as  sins,  are  borrowed.  He  becomes  an 
echo  of  some  one  else's  music,  an  actor  of  a  part 
that  has  not  been  written  for  him.  The  aim  of  life 
is  self-development.  To  realize  one's  nature  per- 
fectly— that  is  what  each  of  us  is  here  for.  People 
are  afraid  of  themselves,  nowadays.  They  have 
forgotten  the  highest  of  all  duties,  the  duty  that 
one  owes  to  one's  self  Of  course  they  are  chari- 
table. They  feed  the  hungry,  and  clothe  the 
beggar.  But  their  own  souls  starve,  and  are  naked. 
Courage  has  gone  out  of  our  race.  Perhaps  we 
never  really  had  it.  The  terror  of  society,  which  is 
the  basis  of  morals,  the  terror  of  God,  which  is  the 
secret  of  religion — these  are  the  two  things  that 
govern  us.     And  yet " 

"Just  turn  your  head  a  little  more  to  the  right, 
Dorian,  like  a  good  boy,"  said  the  painter,  deep  in 
his  work,  and  conscious  only  that  a  look  had  come 
into  the  lad's  face  that  he  had  never  seen  there 
before. 

"  And  yet,"  continued  Lord  Henry,  in  his  low, 
musical  voice,  and  with  that  graceful  wave  of  the 
hand  that  was  always  so  characteristic  of  him,  and 

26 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

that  he  had  even  in  his  Eton  days,  "  I  believe  that 
if  one  man  were  to  live  out  his  life  fully  and  com- 
pletely, were  to  give  form  to  every  feeling,  expres- 
sion to  every  thought,  reality  to  every  dream — I 
believe  that  the  world  would  gain  such  a  fresh 
impulse  of  joy  that  we  would  forget  all  the  maladies 
of  mediaevalism,  and  return  to  the  Hellenic  ideal — 
to  something  finer,  richer,  than  the  Hellenic  ideal, 
it  may  be.  But  the  bravest  man  amongst  us  is 
afraid  of  himself  The  mutilation  of  the  savage 
has  its  tragic  survival  in  the  self-denial  that  mars 
our  lives.  We  are  punished  for  our  refusals.  Every 
impulse  that  we  strive  to  strangle  broods  in  the 
mind,  and  poisons  us.  The  body  sins  once,  and 
has  done  with  its  sin,  for  action  is  a  mode  of  puri- 
fication. Nothing  remains  then  but  the  recollection 
of  a  pleasure,  or  the  luxury  of  a  regret.  The  only 
way  to  get  rid  of  a  temptation  is  to  yield  to  it. 
Resist  it,  and  your  soul  grows  sick  with  longing  for 
the  things  it  has  forbidden  to  itself,  with  desire  for 
what  its  monstrous  laws  have  made  monstrous  and 
unlawful.  It  has  been  said  that  the  great  events 
of  the  world  take  place  in  the  brain.  It  is  in  the 
brain,  and  the  brain  only,  that  the  great  sins  of  the 
world  take  place  also.  You,  Mr.  Gray,  you  yourself, 
with  your  rose-red  youth  and  your  rose-white  boy- 
hood, you  have  had  passions  that  have  made  you 
afraid,  thoughts  that  have  filled  you  with  terror, 
day-dreams   and    sleeping    dreams    whose    mere 

memory  might  stain  your  cheek  with  shame " 

27 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Stop  !  "  faltered  Dorian  Gray,  "  stop !  you 
bewilder  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  There 
is  some  answer  to  you,  but  I  cannot  find  it.  Don't 
speak.  Let  me  think.  Or,  rather,  let  me  try  not 
to  think." 

For  nearly  ten  minutes  he  stood  there,  motion- 
less, with  parted  lips,  and  eyes  strangely  bright. 
He  was  dimly  conscious  that  entirely  fresh  influ- 
ences were  at  work  within  him.  Yet  they  seemed 
to  him  to  have  come  really  from  himself.  The  few 
words  that  Basil's  friend  had  said  to  him — words 
spoken  by  chance,  no  doubt,  and  with  wilful  paradox 
in  them — had  touched  some  secret  chord  that  had 
never  been  touched  before,  but  that  he  felt  was 
now  vibrating  and  throbbing  to  curious  pulses. 

Music  had  stirred  him  like  that.  Music  had 
troubled  him  many  times.  But  music  was  not 
articulate.  It  was  not  a  new  world,  but  rather 
another  chaos,  that  it  created  in  us.  Words  !  Mere 
words  !  How  terrible  they  were  !  How  clear,  and 
vivid,  and  cruel !  One  could  not  escape  from  them. 
And  yet  what  a  subtle  magic  there  was  in 
them  !  They  seemed  to  be  able  to  give  a  plastic 
form  to  formless  things,  and  to  have  a  music 
of  their  own  as  sweet  as  that  of  viol  or  of  lute. 
Mere  words !  Was  there  anything  so  real  as 
words  > 

Yes  ;  there  had  been  things  in  his  boyhood  that 
he  had  not  understood.  He  understood  them  now. 
Life  suddenly  became  fiery-coloured  to  him.     It 

28 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  walking  in  fire. 
Why  had  he  not  known  it  ? 

With  his  subtle  smile,  Lord  Henry  watched  him. 
He  knew  the  precise  psychological  moment  when 
to  say  nothing.  He  felt  intensely  interested.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  sudden  impression  that  his 
words  had  produced,  and,  remembering  a  book 
that  he  had  read  when  he  was  sixteen,  a  book 
which  had  revealed  to  him  much  that  he  had  not 
known  before,  he  wondered  whether  Dorian  Gray 
was  passing  through  a  similar  experience.  He  had 
merely  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air.  Had  it  hit  the 
mark  ?     How  fascinating  the  lad  was  ! 

Hallward  painted  away  with  that  marvellous  bold 
touch  of  his,  that  had  the  true  refinement  and  per- 
fect delicacy  that  in  art,  at  any  rate  comes  only 
from  strength.     He  was  unconscious  of  the  silence. 

"Basil,  I  am  tired  of  standing,"  cried  Dorian 
Gray,  suddenly.  "  I  must  go  out  and  sit  in  the 
garden.     The  air  is  stifling  here." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  so  sorry.  When  I  am 
painting,  I  can't  think  of  anything  else.  But  you 
never  sat  better.  You  were  perfectly  still.  And  I 
have  caught  the  effect  I  wanted — the  half-parted 
lips,  and  the  bright  look  in  the  eyes.  I  don't 
know  what  Harry  has  been  saying  to  you,  but  he 
has  certainly  made  you  have  the  most  wonderful 
expression.  I  suppose  he  has  been  paying  you 
compliments.  You  mustn't  believe  a  word  that  he 
says." 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  He  has  certainly  not  been  paying  me  compli- 
ments. Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  that  I  don't 
believe  anything  he  has  told  me." 

"You  know  you  believe  it  all,"  said  Lord  Henry, 
looking  at  him  with  his  dreamy,  languorous  eyes. 
"  I  will  go  out  to  the  garden  with  you.  It  is 
horribly  hot  in  the  studio.  Basil,  let  us  have 
something  iced  to  drink,  something  with  straw- 
berries in  it." 

"Certainly,  Harry.  Just  touch  the  bell,  and 
when  Parker  comes  I  will  tell  him  what  you  want. 
I  have  got  to  work  up  this  background,  so  I  will 
join  you  later  on.  Don't  keep  Dorian  too  long.  I 
have  never  been  in  better  form  for  painting  than  I 
am  to-day.  This  is  going  to  be  my  masterpiece. 
It  is  my  masterpiece  as  it  stands." 

Lord  Henry  went  out  to  the  garden,  and  found 
Dorian  Gray  burying  his  face  in  the  great  cool  lilac- 
blossoms,  feverishly  drinking  in  their  perfume  as  if 
it  had  been  wine.  He  came  close  to  him,  and  put 
his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  You  are  quite  right 
to  do  that,"  he  murmured.  "  Nothing  can  cure 
the  soul  but  the  senses,  just  as  nothing  can  cure 
the  senses  but  the  soul." 

The  lad  started  and  drew  back.  He  was  bare- 
headed, and  the  leaves  had  tossed  his  rebellious 
curls  and  tangled  all  their  gilded  threads.  There 
was  a  look  of  fear  in  his  eyes,  such  as  people  have 
when  they  are  suddenly  awakened.  His  finely- 
chiselled     nostrils     quivered,    and    some     hidden 

30 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

nerve  shook  the  scarlet  of  his  lips  and  left  them 
trembling. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Lord  Henry,  "  that  is  one  of 
the  great  secrets  of  life — to  cure  the  soul  by  means 
of  the  senses,  and  the  senses  by  means  of  the  soul. 
You  are  a  wonderful  creation.  You  know  more 
than  you  think  you  know,  just  as  you  know  less 
than  you  want  to  know." 

Dorian  Gray  frowned  and  turned  his  head  away. 
He  could  not  help  liking  the  tall,  graceful  young 
man  who  was  standing  by  him.  His  romantic 
olive-coloured  face  and  worn  expression  interested 
him.  There  was  something  in  his  low,  languid 
voice  that  was  absolutely  fascinating.  His  cool, 
white,  flower-like  hands,  even,  had  a  curious  charm. 
They  moved,  as  he  spoke,  like  music,  and  seemed 
to  have  a  language  of  their  own.  But  he  felt 
afraid  of  him,  and  ashamed  of  being  afraid.  Why 
had  it  been  left  for  a  stranger  to  reveal  him  to 
himself?  He  had  known  Basil  Hallward  for 
months,  but  the  friendship  between  them  had  never 
altered  him.  Suddenly  there  had  come  some  one 
across  his  life  who  seemed  to  have  disclosed  to  him 
life's  mystery.  And,  yet,  what  was  there  to  be 
afraid  of?  He  was  not  a  schoolboy  or  a  girl.  It 
was  absurd  to  be  frightened. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  in  the  shade,"  said  Lord 
Henry.  "  Parker  has  brought  out  the  drinks,  and 
if  you  stay  any  longer  in  this  glare  you  will  be 
quite  spoiled,  and  Basil  will  never  paint  you  again. 

31 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

You  really   must   not   allow   yourself  to   become 
sunburnt.     It  would  be  unbecoming." 

*'  What  can  it  matter  ? "  cried  Dorian  Gray, 
laughing,  as  he  sat  down  on  the  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  garden. 

"  It  should  matter  everything  to  you,  Mr. 
Gray." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  have  the  most  marvellous  youth, 
and  youth  is  the  one  thing  worth  having." 

"  I  don't  feel  that,  Lord  Henry." 

"  No,  you  don't  feel  it  now.  Some  day,  when  you 
are  old  and  wrinkled  and  ugly,  when  thought  has 
seared  your  forehead  with  its  lines,  and  passion 
branded  your  lips  with  its  hideous  fires,  you  will 
feel  it,  you  will  feel  it  terribly.  Now,  wherever 
you  go,  you  charm  the  world.  Will  it  always  be 
so .?  .  .  .  You  have  a  wonderfully  beautiful  face, 
Mr.  Gray.  Don't  frown.  You  have.  And  Beauty 
is  a  form  of  Genius — is  higher,  indeed,  than  Genius, 
as  it  needs  no  explanation.  It  is  of  the  great  facts 
of  the  world,  like  sunlight,  or  spring-time,  or  the 
reflection  in  dark  waters  of  that  silver  shell  we  call 
the  moon.  It  cannot  be  questioned.  It  has  its 
divine  right  of  sovereignty.  It  makes  princes  of 
those  who  have  it.  You  smile?  Ah!  when  you 
have  lost  it  you  won't  smile.  .  .  .  People  say 
sometimes  that  Beauty  is  only  superficial.  That 
may  be  so.  But  at  least  it  is  not  so  superficial  as 
Thought   is.     To    me.  Beauty   is   the   wonder  of 

32 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

wonders.  It  is  only  shallow  people  who  do  not 
judge  by  appearances.  The  true  mystery  of  the 
world  is  the  visible,  not  the  invisible.  .  .  .  Yes, 
Mr.  Gray,  the  gods  have  been  good  to  you.  But 
what  the  gods  give  they  quickly  take  away.  You 
have  only  a  few  years  in  which  to  live  really,  per- 
fectly, and  fully.  When  your  youth  goes,  your 
beauty  will  go  with  it,  and  then  you  will  suddenly 
discover  that  there  are  no  triumphs  left  for  you,  or 
have  to  content  yourself  with  those  mean  triumphs 
that  the  memory  of  your  past  will  make  more 
bitter  than  defeats.  Every  month  as  it  wanes 
brings  you  nearer  to  something  dreadful.  Time  is 
jealous  of  you,  and  wars  against  your  lilies  and 
your  roses.  You  will  become  sallow,  and  hollow- 
cheeked,  and  dull-eyed.  Youwill  suffer  horribly.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  realize  your  youth  while  you  have  it.  Don't 
squander  the  gold  of  your  days,  listening  to  the 
tedious,  trying  to  improve  the  hopeless  failure,  or 
giving  away  your  life  to  the  ignorant,  the  common, 
and  the  vulgar.  These  are  the  sickly  aims,  the 
false  ideals,  of  our  age.  Live !  Live  the  wonderful 
life  that  is  in  you  !  Let  nothing  be  lost  upon  you. 
Be  always  searching  for  new  sensations.  Be  afraid 
of  nothing.  ...  A  new  Hedonism — that  is  what 
our  century  wants.  You  might  be  its  visible 
symbol.  With  your  personality  there  is  nothing 
you  could  not  do.  The  world  belongs  to  you  for 
a  season.  .  .  .  The  moment  I  met  you  I  saw  that 
you   were   quite  unconscious  of  what   you  really 

33  D 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY, 

are,  of  what  you  really  might  be.  There  was 
so  much  in  you  that  charmed  me  that  I  felt  I 
must  tell  you  something  about  yourself  I 
thought  how  tragic  it  would  be  if  you  were 
wasted.  For  there  is  such  a  little  time  that  your 
youth  will  last — such  a  little  time.  The  common 
hill-flowers  wither,  but  they  blossom  again.  The 
laburnum  will  be  as  yellow  next  June  as  it  is  now. 
In  a  month  there  will  be  purple  stars  on  the 
clematis,  and  year  after  year  the  green  night  of  its 
leaves  will  hold  its  purple  stars.  But  we  never  get 
back  our  youth.  The  pulse  of  joy  that  beats  in  us 
at  twenty,  becomes  sluggish.  Our  limbs  fail,  our 
senses  rot.  We  degenerate  into  hideous  puppets, 
haunted  by  the  memory  of  the  passions  of  which 
we  were  too  much  afraid,  and  the  exquisite  tempta- 
tions that  we  had  not  the  courage  to  yield  to. 
Youth  !  Youth !  There  is  absolutely  nothing  in 
the  world  but  youth  ! " 

Dorian  Gray  listened,  open-eyed  and  wondering. 
The  spray  of  lilac  fell  from  his  hand  upon  the 
gravel.  A  furry  bee  came  and  buzzed  round  it  for 
a  moment.  Then  it  began  to  scramble  all  over 
the  oval  stellated  globe  of  the  tiny  blossoms.  He 
watched  it  with  that  strange  interest  in  trivial 
things  that  we  try  to  develop  when  things  of  high 
import  make  us  afraid,  or  when  we  are  stirred  by 
some  new  emotion  for  which  we  cannot  find  ex- 
pression, or  when  some  thought  that  terrifies  us 
lays  sudden  siege  to  the  brain  and  calls  on  us  to 

34 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

yield.  After  a  time  the  bee  flew  away.  He  saw  it 
creeping  into  the  stained  trumpet  of  a  Tyrian  con- 
volvulus. The  flower  seemed  to  quiver,  and  then 
swayed  gently  to  and  fro. 

Suddenly  the  painter  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  studio,  and  made  staccato  signs  for  them  to 
come  in.     They  turned  to  each  other,  and  smiled. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  cried.  "Do  come  in.  The 
light  is  quite  perfect,  and  you  can  bring  your 
drinks." 

They  rose  up,  and  sauntered  down  the  walk 
together.  Two  green-and-white  butterflies  fluttered 
past  them,  and  in  the  pear-tree  at  the  corner  of  the 
garden  a  thrush  began  to  sing. 

"  You  are  glad  you  have  met  me,  Mr.  Gray," 
said  Lord  Henry,  looking  at  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad  now.  I  wonder  shall  I  always 
be  glad  ?  " 

"  Always  !  That  is  a  dreadful  word.  It  makes 
me  shudder  when  I  hear  it.  Women  are  so  fond 
of  using  it.  They  spoil  every  romance  by  trying 
to  make  it  last  for  ever.  It  is  a  meaningless  word, 
too.  The  only  difference  between  a  caprice  and  a 
life-long  passion  is  that  the  caprice  lasts  a  little 
longer." 

As  they  entered  the  studio,  Dorian  Gray  put  his 
hand  upon  Lord  Henry's  arm.  "  In  that  case,  let 
our  friendship  be  a  caprice,"  he  murmured,  flushing 
at  his  own  boldness,  then  stepped  up  on  the  plat- 
form and  resumed  his  pose. 

35 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Lord  Henry  flung  himself  into  a  large  wicker 
arm-chair,  and  watched  him.  The  sweep  and  dash 
of  the  brush  on  the  canvas  made  the  only  sound 
that  broke  the  stillness,  except  when,  now  and  then, 
Hallward  stepped  back  to  look  at  his  work  from  a 
distance.  In  the  slanting  beams  that  streamed 
through  the  open  doorway  the  dust  danced  and 
was  golden.  The  heavy  scent  of  the  roses  seemed 
to  brood  over  everything. 

After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Hallward 
stopped  painting,  looked  for  a  long  time  at  Dorian 
Gray,  and  then  for  a  long  time  at  the  picture,  biting 
the  end  of  one  of  his  huge  brushes,  and  frowning. 
"  It  is  quite  finished,"  he  cried  at  last,  and  stooping 
down  he  wrote  his  name  in  long  vermilion  letters 
on  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  canvas. 

Lord  Henry  came  over  and  examined  the  picture. 
It  was  certainly  a  wonderful  work  of  art,  and  a 
wonderful  likeness  as  well. 

"My  dearfellow,  I  congratulate  you  most  warmly," 
he  said.  "  It  is  the  finest  portrait  of  modern  times. 
Mr.  Gray,  come  over  and  look  at  yourself" 

The  lad  started,  as  if  awakened  from  some  dream. 
"  Is  it  really  finished  ? "  he  murmured,  stepping 
down  from  the  platform. 

"  Quite  finished,"  said  the  painter.  "  And  you 
have  sat  splendidly  to-day.  I  am  awfully  obliged 
to  you." 

"  That  is  entirely  due  to  me,"  broke  in  Lord 
Henry.     "  Isn't  it,  Mr.  Gray  ?  " 

36 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Dorian  made  no  answer,  but  passed  listlessly  in 
front  of  his  picture  and  turned  towards  it.  When 
he  saw  it  he  drew  back,  and  his  cheeks  flushed  for 
a  moment  with  pleasure.  A  look  of  joy  came 
into  his  eyes,  as  if  he  had  recognized  himself  for 
the  first  time.  He  stood  there  motionless  and  in 
wonder,  dimly  conscious  that  Hallward  was  speak- 
ing to  him,  but  not  catching  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  The  sense  of  his  own  beauty  came  on  him 
like  a  revelation.  He  had  never  felt  it  before. 
Basil  Hallward's  compliments  had  seemed  to  him 
to  be  merely  the  charming  exaggerations  of  friend- 
ship. He  had  listened  to  them,  laughed  at  them, 
forgotten  them.  They  had  not  influenced  his 
nature.  Then  had  come  Lord  Henry  Wotton 
with  his  strange  panegyric  on  youth,  his  terrible 
warning  of  its  brevity.  That  had  stirred  him  at 
the  time,  and  now,  as  he  stood  gazing  at  the 
shadow  of  his  own  loveliness,  the  full  reality  of 
the  description  flashed  across  him.  Yes,  there 
would  be  a  day  when  his  face  would  be  wrinkled 
and  wizen,  his  eyes  dim  and  colourless,  the  grace 
of  his  figure  broken  and  deformed.  The  scarlet 
would  pass  away  from  his  lips,  and  the  gold  steal 
from  his  hair.  The  life  that  was  to  make  his  soul 
would  mar  his  body.  He  would  become  dreadful, 
hideous,  and  uncouth. 

As  he  thought  of  it,  a  sharp  pang  of  pain  struck 
through  him  like  a  knife,  and  made  each  delicate 
fibre  of  his  nature  quiver.     His  eyes  deepened  into 

37 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

amethyst,  and  across  them  came  a  mist  of  tears. 
He  felt  as  if  a  hand  of  ice  had  been  laid  upon  his 
heart. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ? "  cried  Hallward  at  last, 
stung  a  little  by  the  lad's  silence,  not  understanding 
what  it  meant. 

"  Of  course  he  likes  it,"  said  Lord  Henry. 
"  Who  wouldn't  like  it  ?  It  is  one  of  the  greatest 
things  in  modern  art.  I  will  give  you  anything 
you  like  to  ask  for  it.     I  must  have  it." 

"  It  is  not  my  property,  Harry." 

"  Whose  property  is  it  ?  " 

"  Dorian's,  of  course,"  answered  the  painter. 

"  He  is  a  very  lucky  fellow." 

"  How  sad  it  is  ! "  murmured  Dorian  Gray,  with 
his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  his  own  portrait  "  How 
sad  it  is  !  I  shall  grow  old,  and  horrible,  and 
dreadful.  But  this  picture  will  remain  always 
young.  It  will  never  be  older  than  this  particular 
day  of  June.  .  .  .  If  it  were  only  the  other  way  ! 
If  it  were  I  who  was  to  be  always  young,  and  the 
picture  that  was  to  grow  old  !  For  that — for  that 
— I  would  give  everything  !  Yes,  there  is  nothing 
in  the  whole  world  I  would  not  give  !  I  would  give 
my  soul  for  that ! " 

"  You  would  hardly  care  for  such  an  arrange- 
ment, Basil,"  cried  Lord  Henry,  laughing.  "  It 
would  be  rather  hard  lines  on  your  work." 

"  I  should  object  very  strongly,  Harry,"  said 
Hallward. 

38 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Dorian  Gray  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  I 
believe  you  would,  Basil.  You  like  your  art  better 
than  your  friends.  I  am  no  more  to  you  than  a 
green  bronze  figure.  Hardly  as  much,  I  dare  say." 
The  painter  stared  in  amazement  It  was  so 
unlike  Dorian  to  speak  like  that.  What  had 
happened  ?  He  seemed,  quite  angry.  His  face 
was  flushed  and  his  cheeks  burning. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  less  to  you  than 
your  ivory  Hermes  or  your  silver  Faun.  You  will 
like  them  always.  How  long  will  you  like  me .? 
Till  I  have  my  first  wrinkle,  I  suppose.  I  know, 
now,  that  when  one  loses  one's  good  looks,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  one  loses  everything.  Your 
picture  has  taught  me  that.  Lord  Henry  Wotton 
is  perfectly  right.  Youth  is  the  only  thing  worth 
having.  When  I  find  that  I  am  growing  old,  I 
shall  kill  myself." 

Hall  ward  turned  pale,  and  caught  his  hand. 
"Dorian  !  Dorian  !"  he  cried,  "  don't  talk  like  that. 
I  have  never  had  such  a  friend  as  you,  and  I  shall 
never  have  such  another.  You  are  not  jealous  of 
material  things,  are  you  1 — you  who  are  finer  than 
any  of  them  !  " 

"  I  am  jealous  of  everything  whose  beauty  does 
not  die.  I  am  jealous  of  the  portrait  you  have 
painted  of  me.  Why  should  it  keep  what  I  must 
lose  ?  Every  moment  that  passes  takes  something 
from  me,  and  gives  something  to  it.  Oh,  if  it 
were   only  the   other   way !     If  the  picture  could 

39 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

change,  and  I  could  be  always  what  I  am  now ! 
Why  did  you  paint  it  ?  It  will  mock  me  some 
day — mock  me  horribly  ! "  The  hot  tears  welled 
into  his  eyes  ;  he  tore  his  hand  away,  and,  flinging 
himself  on  the  divan,  he  buried  his  face  in  the 
cushions,  as  though  he  was  praying. 

"  This  is  your  doing,  Harry,"  said  the  painter, 
bitterly. 

Lord  Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It  is  the 
real  Dorian  Gray — that  is  all." 

**  It  is  not." 

"  If  it  is  not,  what  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  You  should  have  gone  away  when  I  asked 
you,"  he  muttered. 

"  I  stayed  when  you  asked  me,"  was  Lord 
Henry's  answer. 

"  Harry,  I  can't  quarrel  with  my  two  best  friends 
at  once,  but  between  you  both  you  have  made  me 
hate  the  finest  piece  of  work  I  have  ever  done,  and 
I  will  destroy  it.  What  is  it  but  canvas  and  colour? 
I  will  not  let  it  come  across  our  three  lives  and 
mar  them." 

Dorian  Gray  lifted  his  golden  head  from  the 
pillow,  and  with  pallid  face  and  tear-stained  eyes 
looked  at  him,  as  he  walked  over  to  the  deal 
painting-table  that  was  set  beneath  the  high  cur- 
tained window.  What  was  he  doing  there?  His 
fingers  were  straying  about  among  the  litter  of  tin 
tubes  and  dry  brushes,  seeking  for  something.  Yes, 
if  was  for  the  long  palette-knife,  with  its  thin  blade 

40 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

of  lithe  steel.     He  had  found  it  at  last.     He  was 
going  to  rip  up  the  canvas. 

With  a  stifled  sob  the  lad  leaped  from  the  couch, 
and,  rushing  over  to  Hall  ward,  tore  the  knife  out 
of  his  hand,  and  flung  it  to  the  end  of  the  studio. 
"  Don't,  Basil,  don't  ! "  he  cried.  "  It  would  be 
murder ! " 

"  I  am  glad  you  appreciate  my  work  at  last, 
Dorian,"  said  the  painter,  coldly,  when  he  had 
recovered  from  his  surprise.  "  I  never  thought  you 
would." 

"  Appreciate  it  ?  I  am  in  love  with  it,  Basil.  It 
is  part  of  myself     I  feel  that." 

"  Well,  as  soon  as  you  are  dry,  you  shall  be  var- 
nished, and  framed,  and  sent  home.  Then  you  can 
do  what  you  like  with  yourself."  And  he  walked 
across  the  room  and  rang  the  bell  for  tea.  "  You 
will  have  tea,  of  course,  Dorian  .?  And  so  will  you, 
Harry?  Or  do  you  object  to  such  simple  pleasures  ?" 

"  I  adore  simple  pleasures,"  said  Lord  Henry. 
"  They  are  the  last  refuge  of  the  complex.  But  I 
don't  like  scenes,  except  on  the  stage.  What 
absurd  fellows  you  are,  both  of  you  !  I  wonder  who 
it  was  defined  man  as  a  rational  animal.  It  was 
the  most  premature  definition  ever  given.  Man  is 
many  things,  but  he  is  not  rational.  I  am  glad  he 
is  not,  after  all  :  though  I  wish  you  chaps  would 
not  squabble  over  the  picture.  You  had  much 
better  let  me  have  it,  Basil.  This  silly  boy  doesn't 
really  want  it,  and  I  really  do." 

41 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  If  you  let  any  one  have  it  but  me,  Basil,  I 
shall  never  forgive  you  ! "  cried  Dorian  Gray  ; 
"  and  I  don't  allow  people  to  call  me  a  silly 
boy." 

"  You  know  the  picture  is  yours,  Dorian.  I  gave 
it  to  you  before  it  existed." 

"  And  you  know  you  have  been  a  little  silly,  Mr. 
Gray,  and  that  you  don't  really  object  to  being 
reminded  that  you  are  extremely  young." 

"  I  should  have  objected  very  strongly  this 
morning,  Lord  Henry." 

"Ah!  this  morning!  You  have  lived  since 
then." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  butler 
entered  with  a  laden  tea-tray  and  set  it  down  upon 
a  small  Japanese  table.  There  was  a  rattle  of  cups 
and  saucers  and  the  hissing  of  a  fluted  Georgian 
urn.  Two  globe-shaped  china  dishes  were  brought 
in  by  a  page.  Dorian  Gray  went  over  and  poured 
out  the  tea.  The  two  men  sauntered  languidly 
to  the  table,  and  examined  what  was  under  the 
covers. 

**  Let  us  go  to  the  theatre  to-night,"  said  Lord 
Henry.  "  There  is  sure  to  be  something  on,  some- 
where. I  have  promised  to  dine  at  White's,  but  it 
is  only  with  an  old  friend,  so  I  can  send  him  a  wire 
to  say  that  I  am  ill,  or  that  I  am  prevented  from 
coming  in  consequence  of  a  subsequent  engage- 
ment. I  think  that  would  be  a  rather  nice  excuse  : 
it  would  have  all  the  surprise  of  candour," 

42 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  It  is  such  a  bore  putting  on  one's  dress-clothes," 
muttered  Hallward.  "  And,  when  one  has  them 
on,  they  are  so  horrid." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  dreamily,  ''  the 
costume  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  detestable. 
It  is  so  sombre,  so  depressing.  Sin  is  the  only  real 
colour-element  left  in  modern  life." 

"  You  really  must  not  say  things  like  that  before 
Dorian,  Harry." 

"  Before  which  Dorian  ?  The  one  who  is  pouring 
out  tea  for  us,  or  the  one  in  the  picture  ?  " 

"Before  either." 

"  I  should  like  to  come  to  the  theatre  with  you, 
Lord  Henry,"  said  the  lad. 

"  Then  you  shall  come  ;  and  you  will  come  too, 
Basil,  won't  you  }  " 

"  I  can't,  really.  I  would  sooner  not.  I  have  a 
lot  of  work  to  do." 

"  Well,  then,  you  and  I  will  go  alone,  Mr.  Gray." 

"  I  should  like  that  awfully." 

The  painter  bit  his  lip  and  walked  over,  cup  in 
hand,  to  the  picture.  "  I  shall  stay  with  the  real 
Dorian,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"  Is  it  the  real  Dorian  ?  "  cried  the  original  of  the 
portrait,  strolling  across  to  him.  Am  I  really  like 
that?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  are  just  like  that." 

"  How  wonderful,  Basil !  " 

"At  least  you  are  like  it  in  appearance.  But  It  will 
never  alter,"  sighed  Hallward.    "  That  is  something," 

43 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  What  a  fuss  people  make  about  fidelity  !  "  ex- 
claimed Lord  Henry.  Why,  even  in  love  it  is  purely 
a  question  for  physiology.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  our  own  will.  Young  men  want  to  be  faithful, 
and  are  not.;  old  men  want  to  be  faithless,  and 
cannot :  that  is  all  one  can  say." 

"  Don't  go  to  the  theatre  to-night,  Dorian,"  said 
Hallward.     "  Stop  and  dine  with  me." 

"  I  can't,  Basil." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  promised  Lord  Henry  Wotton 
to  go  with  him." 

"  He  won't  like  you  the  better  for  keeping  your 
promises.  He  always  breaks  his  own.  I  beg  you 
not  to  go." 

Dorian  Gray  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  entreat  you." 

The  lad  hesitated,  and  looked  over  at  Lord 
Henry,  who  was  watching  them  from  the  tea-table 
with  an  amused  smile. 

"  I  must  go,  Basil,"  he  answered. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hallward  ;  and  he  went  over 
and  laid  down  his  cup  on  the  tray.  "  It  is  rather 
late,  and,  as  you  have  to  dress,  you  had  better  lose 
no  time.  Good-bye,  Harry.  Good-bye,  Dorian. 
Come  and  see  me  soon.     Come  to-morrow." 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  won't  forget  ?  " 

"No,  of  course  not,"  cried  Dorian. 

"And  .  .  .  Harry  ! " 

44 


THR  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Yes,  Basil  ?  " 

"  Remember  what  I  asked  you,  when  we  were  in 
the  garden  this  morning." 

"  I  have  forgotten  it." 

"I  trust  you." 

"  I  wish  I  could  trust  myself,"  said  Lord  Henry, 
laughing.  "  Come,  Mr.  Gray,  my  hansom  is  out- 
side, and  I  can  drop  you  at  your  own  place. 
Good-bye,  Basil.  It  has  been  a  most  interesting 
afternoon." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  them,  the  painter 
flung  himself  down  on  a  sofa,  and  a  look  of  pain 
came  into  his  face. 


45 


CHAPTER  in. 

AT  half-past  twelve  next  day  Lord  Henry 
Wotton  strolled  from  Curzon  Street  over  to 
the  Albany  to  call  on  his  uncle,  Lord  Fermor,  a 
genial  if  somewhat  rough-mannered  old  bachelor, 
whom  the  outside  world  called  selfish  because  it 
derived  no  particular  benefit  from  him,  but  who 
was  considered  generous  by  Society  as  he  fed  the 
people  who  amused  him.  His  father  had  been  our 
ambassador  at  Madrid  when  Isabella  was  young, 
and  Prim  unthought  of,  but  had  retired  from  the 
Diplomatic  Service  in  a  capricious  moment  of 
annoyance  on  not  being  offered  the  Embassy  at 
Paris,  a  post  to  which  he  considered  that  he  was 
fully  entitled  by  reason  of  his  birth,  his  indolence, 
the  good  English  of  his  despatches,  and  his  inor- 
dinate passion  for  pleasure.  The  son,  who  had 
been  his  father's  secretary,  had  resigned  along  with 
his  chief,  somewhat  foolishly  as  was  thought  at  the 
time,  and  on  succeeding  some  months  later  to  the 
title,  had  set  himself  to  the  serious  study  of  the 
great  aristocratic  art  of  doing  absolutely  nothing. 

46 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

He  had  two  large  town  houses,  but  preferred  to  live 
in  chambers  as  it  was  less  trouble,  and  took  most 
of  his  meals  at  his  club.  He  paid  some  attention 
to  the  management  of  his  collieries  in  the  Midland 
counties,  excusing  himself  for  this  taint  of  industry 
on  the  ground  that  the  one  advantage  of  having 
coal  was  that  it  enabled  a  gentleman  to  afford  the 
decency  of  burning  wood  on  his  own  hearth.  In 
politics  he  was  a  Tory,  except  when  the  Tories  were 
in  office,  during  which  period  he  roundly  abused 
them  for  being  a  pack  of  Radicals.  He  was  a  hero 
to  his  valet,  who  bullied  him,  and  a  terror  to  most 
of  his  relations,  \vhom  he  bullied  in  turn.  Only 
England  could  have  produced  him,  and  he  always 
said  that  the  country  was  going  to  the  dogs.  His 
principles  were  out  of  date,  but  there  was  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  for  his  prejudices. 

When  Lord  Henry  entered  the  room,  he  found 
his  uncle  sitting  in  a  rough  shooting  coat,  smoking 
a  cheroot  and  grumbling  over  The  Times.  "  Well, 
Harry,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  what  brings  you 
out  so  early  ?  I  thought  you  dandies  never  got  up 
till  tw^o,  and  were  not  visible  till  five." 

"  Pure  family  affection,  I  assure  you.  Uncle 
George.     I  want  to  get  something  out  of  you." 

"  Money,  I  suppose,"  said  Lord  Fermor,  making 
a  wry  face.  "  Well,  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about 
it.  Young  people,  nowadays,  imagine  that  money 
is  everything." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Lord  Henry,  settling  his  button- 
47 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

hole  in  his  coat ;  "  and  when  they  grow  older  they 
know  it.  But  I  don't  want  money.  It  is  only 
people  who  pay  their  bills  who  want  that,  Uncle 
George,  and  I  never  pay  mine.  Credit  is  the 
capital  of  a  younger  son,  and  one  lives  charmingly 
upon  it.  Besides,  I  always  deal  with  Dartmoor's 
tradesmen,  and  consequently  they  never  bother  me. 
What  I  want  is  information  :  not  useful  informa- 
tion, of  course  ;  useless  information." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  anything  that  is  in  an 
English  Blue-book,  Harry,  although  those  fellows 
nowadays  write  a  lot  of  nonsense.  When  I 
was  in  the  Diplomatic,  things  were  much  better. 
But  I  hear  they  let  them  in  now  by  examination. 
What  can  you  expect  ?  Examinations,  sir,  are 
pure  humbug  from  beginning  to  end.  If  a  man  is 
a  gentleman,  he  knows  quite  enough,  and  if  he  is 
not  a  gentleman,  whatever  he  knows  is  bad  for 
him." 

"  Mr.  Dorian  Gray  does  not  belong  to  Blue- 
books,  Uncle  George,"  said  Lord  Henry,  languidly. 

"  Mr.  Dorian  Gray  ?  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Fermor,  knitting  his  bushy  white  eyebrows. 

"  That  is  what  I  have  come  to  learn,  Uncle 
George.  Or  rather,  I  know  who  he  is.  He  is  the 
last  Lord  Kelso's  grandson.  His  mother  was  a 
Devereux,  Lady  Margaret  Devereux.  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  about  his  mother.  What  was  she  like  ? 
Whom  did  she  marry  ?  You  have  known  nearly 
everybody  in  your  time,  so  you  might  have  known 

48 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

her.  I  am  very  much  interested  in  Mr.  Gray  at 
present.     I  have  only  just  met  him." 

"  Kelso's  grandson  !  "  echoed  the  old  gentleman 
— "  Kelso's  grandson  !  ...  Of  course.  ...  I  knew 
his  mother  intimately.  I  believe  I  was  at  her 
christening.  She  was  an  extraordinarily  beautiful 
girl,  Margaret  Devereux,  and  made  all  the  men 
frantic  by  running  away  with  a  penniless  young 
fellow,  a  mere  nobody,  sir,  a  subaltern  in  a  foot 
regiment,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Certainly. 
I  remember  the  whole  thing  as  if  it  happened 
yesterday.  The  poor  chap  was  killed  in  a  duel  at 
Spa  a  few  months  after  the  marriage.  There  was 
an  ugly  story  about  it.  They  said  Kelso  got  some 
rascally  adventurer,  some  Belgian  brute,  to  insult 
his  son-in-law  in  public,  paid  him,  sir,  to  do  it, 
paid  him,  and  that  the  fellow  spitted  his  man  as  if 
he  had  been  a  pigeon.  The  thing  was  hushed  up, 
but,  egad,  Kelso  ate  his  chop  alone  at  the  club  for 
some  time  afterwards.  He  brought  his  daughter 
back  with  him,  I  was  told,  and  she  never  spoke  to 
him  again.  Oh,  yes  ;  it  was  a  bad  business.  The 
girl  died  too,  died  within  a  year.  So  she  left  a  son, 
did  she .?  I  had  forgotten  that.  What  sort  of  boy 
is  he  ?  If  he  is  like  his  mother  he  must  be  a  good- 
looking  chap." 

"  He  is  very  good  -  looking,"  assented  Lord 
Henry. 

"  I  hope  he  will  fall  into  proper  hands,"  continued 
the  old  man.     "  He  should  have  a  pot  of  money 

49  E 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

waiting  for  him  if  Kelso  did  the  right  thing  by 
him.  His  mother  had  money  too.  All  the  Selby 
property  came  to  her,  through  her  grandfather. 
Her  grandfather  hated  Kelso,  thought  him  a  mean 
dog.  He  was,  too.  Came  to  Madrid  once  when  I 
was  there.  Egad,  I  was  ashamed  of  him.  The 
Queen  used  to  ask  me  about  the  English  noble 
who  was  always  quarrelling  with  the  cabmen  about 
their  fares.  They  made  quite  a  story  of  it.  I 
didn't  dare  show  my  face  at  Court  for  a  month.  I 
hope  he  treated  his  grandson  better  than  he  did 
the  jarvies." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Lord  Henry.  "  I 
fancy  that  the  boy  will  be  well  off.  He  is  not  of 
age  yet.  He  has  Selby,  I  know.  He  told 
me  so.  And  ...  his  mother  was  very  beau- 
tiful ?  " 

"  Margaret  Devereux  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
creatures  I  ever  saw,  Harry.  What  on  earth 
induced  her  to  behave  as  she  did,  I  never  could 
understand.  She  could  have  married  anybody 
she  chose.  Carlington  was  mad  after  her.  She 
was  romantic,  though.  All  the  women  of  that 
family  were.  The  men  were  a  poor  lot,  but,  egad  ! 
the  women  were  wonderful.  Carlington  went  on 
his  knees  to  her.  Told  me  so  himself.  She 
laughed  at  him,  and  there  wasn't  a  girl  in  London 
at  the  time  who  wasn't  after  him.  And  by  the 
way,  Harry,  talking  about  silly  marriages,  what 
is  this  humbug  your  father  tells  me  about  Dart- 

50 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

moor  wanting  to  marry  an  American  ?  Ain't 
English  girls  good  enough  for  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  rather  fashionable  to  marry  Americans 
just  now,  Uncle  George." 

"  I'll  back  English  women  against  the  world, 
Harry,"  said  Lord  Fermor,  striking  the  table  with 
his  fist. 

"  The  betting  is  on  the  Americans." 

"  They  don't  last,  I  am  told,"  muttered  his  uncle. 

"  A  long  engagement  exhausts  them,  but  they 
are  capital  at  a  steeplechase.  They  take  things 
flying.     I  don't  think  Dartmoor  has  a  chance." 

"  Who  are  her  people  1 "  grumbled  the  old 
gentleman.     "  Has  she  got  any  ?  " 

Lord  Henry  shook  his  head.  "  American  girls 
are  as  clever  at  concealing  their  parents,  as 
English  women  are  at  concealing  their  past,"  he 
said,  rising  to  go. 

"  They  are  pork-packers,  I  suppose .?  " 

"  I  hope  so.  Uncle  George,  for  Dartmoor's  sake. 
I  am  told  that  pork-packing  is  the  most  lucrative 
profession  in  America,  after  politics." 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?  " 

"  She  behaves  as  if  she  was  beautiful.  Most 
American  women  do.  It  is  the  secret  of  their 
charm." 

"  Why  can't  these  American  women  stay  in  their 
own  country?  They  are  always  telling  us  that 
it  is  the  Paradise  for  women." 

"  It  is.  That  is  the  reason  why,  like  Eve,  they 
51 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

are  so  excessively  anxious  to  get  out  of  it,"  said 
Lord  Henry.  "  Good-bye,  Uncle  George.  I  shall 
be  late  for  lunch,  if  I  stop  any  longer.  Thanks  for 
giving  me  the  information  I  wanted.  I  always  like 
to  know  everything  about  my  new  friends,  and 
nothing  about  my  old  ones." 

"  Where  are  you  lunching,  Harry  }  " 

"  At  Aunt  Agatha's.  I  have  asked  myself  and 
Mr.  Gray.     He  is  her  latest /r^/^^/." 

"  Humph  !  tell  your  Aunt  Agatha,  Harry,  not 
to  bother  me  any  more  with  her  charity  appeals. 
I  am  sick  of  them.  Why,  the  good  woman  thinks 
that  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  write  cheques  for 
her  silly  fads." 

"All  right.  Uncle  George,  I'll  tell  her,  but  it 
won't  have  any  effect.  Philanthropic  people  lose 
all  sense  of  humanity.  It  is  their  distinguishing 
characteristic." 

The  old  gentleman  growled  approvingly,  and 
rang  the  bell  for  his  servant.  Lord  Henry  passed 
up  the  low  arcade  into  Burlington  Street,  and 
turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Berkeley 
Square. 

So  that  was  the  story  of  Dorian  Gray's  parentage. 
Crudely  as  it  had  been  told  to  him,  it  had  yet 
stirred  him  by  its  suggestion  of  a  strange,  almost 
modern  romance.  A  beautiful  woman  risking 
everything  for  a  mad  passion.  A  few  wild  weeks 
of  happiness  cut  short  by  a  hideous,  treacherous 
crime.    Months  of  voiceless  agony,  and  then  a  child 

52 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

born  in  pain.  The  mother  snatched  away  by 
death,  the  boy  left  to  solitude  and  the  tyranny  of 
an  old  and  loveless  man.  Yes ;  it  was  an  in- 
teresting background.  It  posed  the  lad,  made 
him  more  perfect  as  it  were.  Behind  every  ex- 
quisite thing  that  existed,  there  was  something 
tragic.  Worlds  had  to  be  in  travail,  that  the 
meanest  flower  might  blow.  .  .  .  And  how  charm- 
ing he  had  been  at  dinner  the  night  before,  as 
with  startled  eyes  and  lips  parted  in  frightened 
pleasure  he  had  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  club, 
the  red  candleshades  staining  to  a  richer  rose  the 
wakening  wonder  of  his  face.  Talking  to  him 
was  like  playing  upon  an  exquisite  violin.  He 
answered  to  every  touch  and  thrill  of  the  bow.  .  .  . 
There  was  something  terribly  enthralling  in  the 
exercise  of  influence.  No  other  activity  was  like 
it.  To  project  one's  soul  into  some  gracious  form, 
and  let  it  tarry  there  for  a  moment  ;  to  hear  one's 
own  intellectual  views  echoed  back  to  one  with 
all  the  added  music  of  passion  and  youth  ;  to 
convey  one's  temperament  into  another  as  though 
it  were  a  subtle  fluid  or  a  strange  perfume  :  there 
was  a  real  joy  in  that — perhaps  the  most  satisfying 
joy  left  to  us  in  an  age  so  limited  and  vulgar  as 
our  own,  an  age  grossly  carnal  in  its  pleasures, 
and  grossly  common  in  its  aims.  .  .  .  He  was  a 
marvellous  type,  too,  this  lad,  whom  by  so  curious 
a  chance  he  had  met  in  Basil's  studio,  or  could  be 
fashioned    into   a   marvellous   type,   at    any   rate. 

53 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Grace  was  his,  and  the  white  purity  of  boyhood, 
and  beauty  such  as  old  Greek  marbles  kept  for  us. 
There  was  nothing  that  one  could  not  do  with  him. 
He  could  be  made  a  Titan  or  a  toy.  What  a  pity 
it  was  that  such  beauty  was  destined  to  fade !  .  .  . 
And  Basil  ?  From  a  psychological  point  of  view, 
how  interesting  he  was  !  The  new  manner  in  art, 
the  fresh  mode  of  looking  at  life,  suggested  so 
strangely  by  the  merely  visible  presence  of  one 
who  was  unconscious  of  it  all ;  the  silent  spirit 
that  dwelt  in  dim  woodland,  and  walked  unseen 
in  open  field,  suddenly  showing  herself,  Dryad-like 
and  not  afraid,  because  in  his  soul  who  sought  for 
her  there  had  been  wakened  that  wonderful  vision 
to  which  alone  are  wonderful  things  revealed  ;  the 
mere  shapes  and  patterns  of  things  becoming,  as  it 
were,  refined,  and  gaining  a  kind  of  symbolical 
value,  as  though  they  were  themselves  patterns  of 
some  other  and  more  perfect  form  whose  shadow 
they  made  real :  how  strange  it  all  was !  He 
remembered  something  like  it  in  history.  Was  it 
not  Plato,  that  artist  in  thought,  who  had  first 
analyzed  it?  Was  it  not  Buonarotti  who  had 
carved  it  in  the  coloured  marbles  of  a  sonnet- 
sequence  ?  But  in  our  own  century  it  was  strange. 
.  .  .  Yes  ;  he  would  try  to  be  to  Dorian  Gray 
what,  without  knowing  it,  the  lad  was  to  the 
painter  who  had  fashioned  the  wonderful  portrait. 
He  would  seek  to  dominate  him — had  already, 
indeed,    half    done    so.       He    would    make    that 

54 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

wonderful  spirit  his  own.  There  was  something 
fascinating  in  this  son  of  Love  and  Death. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  glanced  up  at  the 
houses.  He  found  that  he  had  passed  his  aunt's 
some  distance,  and,  smiling  to  himself,  turned  back. 
When  he  entered  the  somewhat  sombre  hall,  the 
butler  told  him  that  they  had  gone  in  to  lunch. 
He  gave  one  of  the  footmen  his  hat  and  stick,  and 
passed  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Late  as  usual,  Harry,"  cried  his  aunt,  shaking 
her  head  at  him. 

He  invented  a  facile  excuse,  and  having  taken 
the  vacant  seat  next  to  her,  looked  round  to 
see  who  was  there.  Dorian  bowed  to  him  shyly 
from  the  end  of  the  table,  a  flush  of  pleasure 
stealing  into  his  cheek.  Opposite  was  the  Duchess 
of  Harley,  a  lady  of  admirable  good-nature  and 
good  temper,  much  liked  by  every  one  who  knew 
her,  and  of  those  ample  architectural  proportions 
that  in  women  who  are  not  Duchesses  are  described 
by  contemporary  historians  as  stoutness.  Next  to 
her  sat,  on  her  right.  Sir  Thomas  Burdon,  a  Radical 
member  of  Parliament,  who  followed  his  leader  in 
public  life,  and  in  private  life  followed  the  best 
cooks,  dining  with  the  Tories,  and  thinking  with 
the  Liberals,  in  accordance  with  a  wise  and  well- 
known  rule.  The  post  on  her  left  was  occupied 
by  Mr.  Erskine  of  Treadley,  an  old  gentleman 
of  considerable  charm  and  culture,  who  had  fallen, 
however,  into  bad  habits  of  silence,  having,  as  he 

55 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

explained  once  to  Lady  Agatha,  said  everything 
that  he  had  to  say  before  he  was  thirty.  His  own 
neighbour  was  Mrs.  Vandeleur,  one  of  his  aunt's 
oldest  friends,  a  perfect  saint  amongst  women,  but 
so  dreadfully  dowdy  that  she  reminded  one  of  a 
badly  bound  hymn-book.  Fortunately  for  him 
she  had  on  the  other  side  Lord  Faudel,  a  most 
intelligent  middle-aged  mediocrity,  as  bald  as  a 
Ministerial  statement  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
with  whom  she  was  conversing  in  that  intensely 
earnest  manner  which  is  the  one  unpardonable  error, 
as  he  remarked  once  himself,  that  all  really  good 
people  fall  into,  and  from  which  none  of  them  ever 
quite  escape. 

"We  are  talking  about  poor  Dartmoor,  Lord 
Henry,"  cried  the  Duchess,  nodding  pleasantly  to 
him  across  the  table.  "  Do  you  think  he  will  really 
marry  this  fascinating  young  person  ?  " 

"  I  believe  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  propose 
to  him.  Duchess." 

"  How  dreadful  ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Agatha. 
"  Really,  some  one  should  interfere." 

"  I  am  told,  on  excellent  authority,  that  her 
father  keeps  an  American  dry-goods  store,"  said 
Sir  Thomas  Burdon,  looking  supercilious. 

"  My  uncle  has  already  suggested  pork-packing, 
Sir  Thomas." 

"  Dry-goods  !  What  are  American  dry-goods  ?  " 
asked  the  Duchess,  raising  her  large  hands  in 
wonder,  and  accentuating  the  verb. 

56 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  American  novels,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  help- 
ing himself  to  some  quail. 

The  Duchess  looked  puzzled. 

"  Don't  mind  him,  my  dear,"  whispered  Lady 
Agatha.   "  He  never  means  anything  that  he  says." 

"  When  America  was  discovered,"  said  the  Radi- 
cal member,  and  he  began  to  give  some  wearisome 
facts.  Like  all  people  who  try  to  exhaust  a  subject, 
he  exhausted  his  listeners.  The  Duchess  sighed, 
and  exercised  her  privilege  of  interruption.  "  I  wish 
to  goodness  it  never  had  been  discovered  at  all ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  Really,  our  girls  have  no  chance 
nowadays.     It  is  most  unfair." 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  America  never  has  been 
discovered,"  said  Mr.  Erskine  ;  "  I  myself  would 
say  that  it  had  merely  been  detected." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  have  seen  specimens  of  the  inhabi- 
tants," answered  the  Duchess,  vaguely.  "  I  must 
confess  that  most  of  them  are  extremely  pretty. 
And  they  dress  well,  too.  They  get  all  their  dresses 
in  Paris.     I  wish  I  could  afford  to  do  the  same." 

"  They  say  that  when  good  Americans  die  they 
go  to  Paris,"  chuckled  Sir  Thomas,  who  had  a 
large  wardrobe  of  Humour's  cast-off  clothes. 

"  Really  !  And  where  do  bad  Americans  go  to 
when  they  die  .-* "  inquired  the  Duchess. 

"  They  go  to  America,"  murmured  Lord  Henry. 

Sir  Thomas  frowned.  "  I  am  afraid  that  your 
nephew  is  prejudiced  against  that  great  country," 
he  said  to  Lady  Agatha.     "  I   have  travelled  all 

57 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

over  it,  in  cars  provided  by  the  directors,  who,  in 
such  matters,  are  extremely  civil.  I  assure  you 
that  it  is  an  education  to  visit  it." 

"  But  must  we  really  see  Chicago  in  order  to  be 
educated  ? "  asked  Mr.  Erskine,  plaintively.  "  I 
don't  feel  up  to  the  journey." 

Sir  Thomas  waved  his  hand.  "  Mr.  Erskine  of 
Treadley  has  the  world  on  his  shelves.  We  prac- 
tical men  like  to  see  things,  not  to  read  about  them. 
The  Americans  are  an  extremely  interesting  people. 
They  are  absolutely  reasonable.  I  think  that  is 
their  distinguishing  characteristic.  Yes,  Mr. 
Erskine,  an  absolutely  reasonable  people.  I  assure 
you  there  is  no  nonsense  about  the  Americans." 

"  How  dreadful !  "  cried  Lord  Henry.  "  I  can 
stand  brute  force,  but  brute  reason  is  quite  unbear- 
able. There  is  something  unfair  about  its  use.  It 
is  hitting  below  the  intellect." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Sir  Thomas, 
growing  rather  red. 

"  I  do.  Lord  Henry,"  murmured  Mr.  Erskine, 
with  a  smile. 

*'  Paradoxes  are  all  very  well  in  their  way.  .  .  ." 
rejoined  the  Baronet. 

"  Was  that  a  paradox  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Erskine.  "  I 
did  not  think  so.  Perhaps  it  was.  Well,  the  way  of 
paradoxes  is  the  way  of  truth.  To  test  Reality 
we  must  see  it  on  the  tight-rope.  When  the 
Verities  become  acrobats  wc  can  judge  them." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Lady  Agatha,  *'  how  you  men 
58 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

argue  !  I  am  sure  I  never  can  make  out  what  you 
are  talking  about.  Oh  !  Harry,  I  am  quite  vexed 
with  you.  Why  do  you  try  to  persuade  our  nice  Mr. 
Dorian  Gray  to  give  up  the  East  End  ?  I  assure 
you  he  would  be  quite  invaluable.  They  would 
love  his  playing." 

"  I  want  him  to  play  to  me,"  cried  Lord  Henry, 
smiling,  and  he  looked  down  the  table  and  caught 
a  bright  answering  glance. 

"  But  they  are  so  unhappy  in  Whitechapel," 
continued  Lady  Agatha. 

"  I  can  sympathize  with  everything,  except  suffer- 
ing," said  Lord  Henry,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "I 
cannot  sympathize  with  that.  It  is  too  ugly,  too 
horrible,  too  distressing.  There  is  something 
terribly  morbid  in  the  modern  sympathy  with 
pain.  One  should  sympathize  with  the  colour, 
the  beauty,  the  joy  of  life.  The  less  said  about 
life's  sores  the  better." 

"  Still,  the  East  End  is  a  very  important 
problem,"  remarked  Sir  Thomas,  with  a  grave 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  Quite  so,"  answered  the  young  lord.  "It  is  the 
problem  of  slavery,  and  we  try  to  solve  it  by 
amusing  the  slaves." 

The  politician  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  What 
change  do  you  propose,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lord  Henry  laughed.  "  I  don't  desire  to  change 
anything  in  England  except  the  weather,"  he  an- 
swered.    "  I    am    quite   content   with    philosophic 

59 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

contemplation.  But,  as  the  nineteenth  century  has 
gone  bankrupt  through  an  over-expenditure  of 
sympathy,  I  would  suggest  that  we  should  appeal 
to  Science  to  put  us  straight.  The  advantage  of 
the  emotions  is  that  they  lead  us  astray,  and  the 
advantage  of  Science  is  that  it  is  not  emotional." 

"  But  we  have  such  grave  responsibilities,"  ven- 
tured Mrs.  Vandeleur,  timidly. 

"  Terribly  grave,"  echoed  Lady  Agatha. 

Lord  Henry  looked  over  at  Mr.  Erskine. 
"  Humanity  takes  itself  too  seriously.  It  is  the 
world's  original  sin.  If  the  caveman  had  known 
how  to  laugh.  History  would  have  been  different." 

"  You  are  really  very  comforting,"  warbled  the 
Duchess.  "  I  have  always  felt  rather  guilty  when 
I  came  to  see  your  dear  aunt,  for  I  take  no  interest 
at  all  in  the  East  End.  For  the  future  I  shall  be 
able  to  look  her  in  the  face  without  a  blush." 

"  A  blush  is  very  becoming.  Duchess,"  remarked 
Lord  Henry. 

"  Only  when  one  is  young,"  she  answered. 
"  When  an  old  woman  like  myself  blushes,  it  is  a 
very  bad  sign.  Ah  !  Lord  Henry,  I  wished  you 
would  tell  me  how  to  become  young  again." 

He  thought  for  a  moment.  "  Can  you  remember 
any  great  error  that  you  committed  in  your  early 
days.  Duchess  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  her  across 
the  table. 

"  A  great  many,  I  fear,"  she  cried. 

*'  Then  commit  them  over  again,"  he  said,  gravely. 
60 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  To  get  back  one's  youth,  one  has  merely  to  repeat 
one's  follies." 

"  A  delightful  theory  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  must 
put  it  into  practice." 

"  A  dangerous  theory  !  "  came  from  Sir  Thomas's 
tight  lips.  Lady  Agatha  shook  her  head,  but  could 
not  help  being  amused.     Mr.  Erskine  listened. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  that  is  one  of  the  great 
secrets  of  life.  Nowadays  most  people  die  of  a 
sort  of  creeping  common  sense,  and  discover  when 
it  is  too  late  that  the  only  things  one  never  regrets 
are  one's  mistakes." 

A  laugh  ran  round  the  table. 

He  played  with  the  idea,  and  grew  wilful  ;  tossed 
it  into  the  air  and  transformed  it ;  let  it  escape  and 
recaptured  it ;  made  it  iridescent  with  fancy,  and 
winged  it  with  paradox.  The  praise  of  folly,  as  he 
went  on,  soared  into  a  philosophy,  and  Philosophy 
herself  became  young,  and  catching  the  mad  music 
of  Pleasure,  wearing,  one  might  fancy,  her  wine- 
stained  robe  and  wreath  of  ivy,  danced  like  a 
Bacchante  over  the  hills  of  life,  and  mocked  the 
slow  Silenus  for  being  sober.  Facts  fled  before 
her  like  frightened  forest  things.  Her  white  feet 
trod  the  huge  press  at  which  wise  Omar  sits,  till 
the  seething  grape-juice  rose  round  her  bare  limbs 
in  waves  of  purple  bubbles,  or  crawled  in  red  foam 
over  the  vat's  black,  dripping,  sloping  sides.  It 
was  an  extraordinary  improvisation.  He  felt  that 
the  eyes  of  Dorian  Gray  were  fixed  on  him,  and 

6i 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY, 

the  consciousness  that  amongst  his  audience  there 
was  one  whose  temperament  he  wished  to  fascinate, 
seemed  to  give  his  wit  keenness,  and  to  lend  colour 
to  his  imagination.  He  was  brilliant,  fantastic, 
irresponsible.  He  charmed  his  listeners  out  of 
themselves,  and  they  followed  his  pipe  laughing. 
Dorian  Gray  never  took  his  gaze  off  him,  but  sat 
like  one  under  a  spell,  smiles  chasing  each  other 
over  his  lips,  and  wonder  growing  grave  in  his 
darkening  eyes. 

At  last,  liveried  in  the  costume  of  the  age, 
Reality  entered  the  room  in  the  shape  of  a  servant 
to  tell  the  Duchess  that  her  carriage  was  waiting. 
She  wrung  her  hands  in  mock  despair.  "  How 
annoying !  "  she  cried.  "  I  must  go.  I  have  to  call 
for  my  husband  at  the  club,  to  take  him  to  some 
absurd  meeting  at  Willis's  Rooms,  where  he  is 
going  to  be  in  the  chair.  If  I  am  late  he  is  sure 
to  be  furious,  and  I  couldn't  have  a  scene  in  this 
bonnet.  It  is  far  too  fragile.  A  harsh  word  would 
ruin  it.  No,  I  must  go,  dear  Agatha.  Good-bye, 
Lord  Henry,  you  are  quite  delightful,  and  dread- 
fully demoralizing.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what 
to  say  about  your  views.  You  must  come  and  dine 
with  us  some  night.  Tuesday?  Are  you  dis- 
engaged Tuesday  ?  " 

"  For  you  I  would  throw  over  anybody,  Duchess," 
said  Lord  Henry,  with  a  bow. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  very  nice,  and  very  wrong  of  you," 
she  cried  ;   "  so  mind  you  come ; "  and  she  swept 

62 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

out  of  the  room,  followed  by  Lady  Agatha  and  the 
other  ladies. 

When  Lord  Henry  had  sat  down  again,  Mr. 
Erskine  moved  round,  and  taking  a  chair  close  to 
him,  placed  his  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  talk  books  away,"  he  said  ;  "  why  don't  you 
write  one  ?" 

"  I  am  too  fond  of  reading  books  to  care  to  write 
them,  Mr.  Erskine.  I  should  like  to  write  a  novel 
certainly,  a  novel  that  would  be  as  lovely  as  a 
Persian  carpet  and  as  unreal.  But  there  is  no 
literary  public  in  England  for  anything  except 
newspapers,  primers,  and  encyclopaedias.  Of  all 
people  in  the  world  the  English  have  the  least 
sense  of  the  beauty  of  literature." 

"I  fear  you  are  right,"  answered  Mr.  Erskine. 
"  I  myself  used  to  have  literary  ambitions,  but  I 
gave  them  up  long  ago.  And  now,  my  dear  young 
friend,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  call  you  so,  may  I 
ask  if  you  really  meant  all  that  you  said  to  us  at 
lunch  .? " 

"  I  quite  forget  what  I  said,"  smiled  Lord  Henry. 
"  Was  it  all  very  bad  ?  " 

"  Very  bad  indeed.  In  fact  I  consider  you  ex- 
tremely dangerous,  and  if  anything  happens  to  our 
good  Duchess  we  shall  all  look  on  you  as  being 
primarily  responsible.  But  I  should  like  to  talk  to 
you  about  life.  The  generation  into  which  I  was 
born  was  tedious.  Some  day,  when  you  are  tired 
of  London,  come  down  to  Treadley,  and  expound 

63 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

to  me  your  philosophy  of  pleasure  over  some 
admirable  Burgundy  I  am  fortunate  enough  to 
possess." 

*'  I  shall  be  charmed.  A  visit  to  Treadley 
would  be  a  great  privilege.  It  has  a  perfect  host, 
and  a  perfect  library." 

"  You  will  complete  it,"  answered  the  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  courteous  bow.  "  And  now  I  must 
bid  good-bye  to  your  excelfent  aunt.  I  am  due  at 
the  Athenaeum.  It  is  the  hour  when  we  sleep 
there." 

"  All  of  you,  Mr.  Erskine  ?  " 

"  Forty  of  us,  in  forty  arm-chairs.  We  are  prac- 
tising for  an  English  Academy  of  Letters." 

Lord  Henry  laughed,  and  rose.  "  I  am  going  to 
the  Park,"  he  cried. 

As  he  was  passing  out  of  the  door  Dorian  Gray 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  "  Let  me  come  with  you," 
he  murmured. 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  promised  Basil 
Hallward  to  go  and  see  him,"  answered  Lord 
Henry. 

"  I  would  sooner  come  with  you  ;  yes,  I  feel  I 
must  come  with  you.  Do  let  me.  And  you  will 
promise  to  talk  to  me  all  the  time  ?  No  one  talks 
so  wonderfully  as  you  do." 

"  Ah  !  I  have  talked  quite  enough  for  to-day," 
said  Lord  Henry,  smiling.  "  All  I  want  now  is  to 
look  at  life.  You  may  come  and  look  at  it  with 
me,  if  you  care  to." 

64 


CHAPTER  IV. 

« 

ONE  afternoon,  a  month  later,  Dorian  Gray 
was  reclining  in  a  luxurious  arm-chair,  in  the 
little  library  of  Lord  Henry's  house  in  Mayfair.  It 
was,  in  its  way,  a  very  charming  room,  with  its 
high  panelled  wainscoting  of  olive-stained  oak,  its 
cream-coloured  frieze  and  ceiling  of  raised  plaster- 
work,  and  its  brickdust  felt  carpet  strewn  with 
silk  long-fringed  Persian  rugs.  On  a  tiny  satin- 
wood  table  stood  a  statuette  by  Clod  ion,  and  beside 
it  lay  a  copy  of  "  Les  Cent  Nouvelles,"  bound  for 
Margaret  of  Valois  by  Clovis  Eve,  and  powdered 
with  the  gilt  daisies  that  Queen  had  selected  for 
her  device.  Some  large  blue  china  jars  and 
parrot-tulips  were  ranged  on  the  mantelshelf,  and 
through  the  small  leaded  panes  of  the  window 
streamed  the  apricot-coloured  light  of  a  summer 
day  in  London. 

Lord  Henry  had  not  yet  come  in.  He  was 
always  late  on  principle,  his  principle  being  that 
punctuality  is  the  thief  of  time.  So  the  lad  was 
looking  rather  sulky,  as  with  listless  fingers  he 
turned  over  the  pages  of  an  elaborately-illustrated 

65  F 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

edition  of  "  Manon  Lescaut  "  that  he  had  found  in 
one  of  the  bookcases.  The  formal  monotonous 
ticking  of  the  Louis  Quatorze  clock  annoyed  him. 
Once  or  twice  he  thought  of  going  away. 

At  last  he  heard  a  step  outside,  and  the  door 
opened.  "  How  late  you  are,  Harry  ! "  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  Harry,  Mr.  Gray,"  answered 
a  shrill  voice. 

He  glanced  quickly  round,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  thought " 

"  You  thought  it  was  my  husband.  It  is  only 
his  Avife.  You  must  let  me  introduce  myself  I 
know  you  quite  well  by  your  photographs.  I  think 
my  husband  has  got  seventeen  of  them." 

"  Not  seventeen.  Lady  Henry  ?  " 

"  Well,  eighteen,  then.  And  I  saw  you  with 
him  the  other  night  at  the  Opera."  She  laughed 
nervously  as  she  spoke,  and  watched  him  with  her 
vague  forget-me-not  eyes.  She  was  a  curious 
woman,  whose  dresses  always  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  designed  in  a  rage  and  put  on  in  a  tempest. 
She  was  usually  in  love  with  somebody,  and,  as  her 
passion  was  never  returned,  she  had  kept  all  her 
illusions.  She  tried  to  look  picturesque,  but  only 
succeeded  in  being  untidy.  Her  name  was  Vic- 
toria, and  she  had  a  perfect  mania  for  going  to 
church. 

"  That  was  at  '  Lohengrin,'  Lady  Henry,  I 
think } " 

66 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  at  dear  *  Lohengrin.'  I  like 
Wagner's  music  better  than  anybody's.  It  is  so 
loud  that  one  can  talk  the  whole  time  without  other 
people  hearing  what  one  says.  That  is  a  great 
advantage  :  don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Gray?" 

The  same  nervous  staccato  laugh  broke  from 
her  thin  lips,  and  her  fingers  began  to  play  with  a 
long  tortoise-shell  paper-knife. 

Dorian  smiled,  and  shook  his  head :  "  I  am 
afraid  I  don't  think  so.  Lady  Henry.  I  never  talk 
during  music — at  least,  during  good  music.  If  one 
hears  bad  music,  it  is  one's  duty  to  drown  it  in 
conversation." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  one  of  Harry's  views,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
Gray  ?  I  always  hear  Harry's  views  from  his 
friends.  It  is  the  only  way  I  get  to  know  of  them. 
But  you  must  not  think  I  don't  like  good  music.  I 
adore  it,  but  I  am  afraid  of  it.  It  makes  me  too 
romantic.  I  have  simply  worshipped  pianists — two 
at  a  time,  sometimes,  Harry  tells  me.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  about  them.  Perhaps  it  is  that 
they  are  foreigners.  They  all  are,  ain't  they? 
Even  those  that  are  born  in  England  become 
foreigners  after  a  time,  don't  they  ?  It  is  so  clever 
of  them,  and  such  a  compliment  to  art.  Makes  it 
quite  cosmopolitan,  doesn't  it  ?  You  have  never 
been  to  any  of  my  parties,  have  you,  Mr.  Gray  ? 
You  must  come.  I  can't  afford  orchids,  but  I 
spare  no  expense  in  foreigners.  They  make  one's 
rooms  look  so  picturesque.     But  here  is  Harry  ! — 

67 


THE  PICTURE  OE  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Harry,  I  came  in  to  look  for  you,  to  ask  you  some- 
thing— I  forget  what  it  was — and  I  found  Mr. 
Gray  here.  We  have  had  such  a  pleasant  chat 
about  music.  We  have  quite  the  same  ideas.  No; 
I  think  our  ideas  are  quite  different.  But  he 
has  been  most  pleasant.  I  am  so  glad  I've  seen 
him." 

"  I  am  charmed,  my  love,  quite  charmed,"  said 
Lord  Henry,  elevating  his  dark  crescent-shaped 
eyebrows  and  looking  at  them  both  with  an  amused 
smile.  "  So  sorry  I  am  late,  Dorian.  I  went  to 
look  after  a  piece  of  old  brocade  in  Wardour 
Street,  and  had  to  bargain  for  hours  for  it.  Nowa- 
days people  know  the  price  of  everything,  and  the 
value  of  nothing." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  exclaimed  Lady 
Henry,  breaking  an  awkward  silence  with  her  silly 
sudden  laugh.  "  I  have  promised  to  drive  with  the 
Duchess.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Gray.  Good-bye,  Harry. 
You  are  dining  out,  I  suppose  t  So  am  I.  Perhaps 
I  shall  see  you  at  Lady  Thornbury's." 

"  I  dare  say,  my  dear,"  said  Lord  Henry,  shutting 
the  door  behind  her,  as,  looking  like  a  bird  of 
paradise  that  had  been  out  all  night  in  the  rain, 
she  flitted  out  of  the  room,  leaving  a  faint  odour  of 
frangipanni.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  flung 
himself  down  on  the  sofa. 

"  Never  marry  a  woman  with  straw-coloured  hair, 
Dorian,"  he  said,  after  a  few  puffs. 

"Why,  Harry?" 

68 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  Because  they  are  so  sentimental." 

"  But  I  like  sentimental  people." 

"  Never  marry  at  all,  Dorian.  Men  marry  because 
they  are  tired  ;  women,  because  they  are  curious  : 
both  are  disappointed." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  likely  to  marry,  Harry.  I 
am  too  much  in  love.  That  is  one  of  your  aphor- 
isms. I  am  putting  it  into  practice,  as  I  do  every- 
thing that  you  say." 

"  Who  are  you  in  love  with  t "  asked  Lord  Henry, 
after  a  pause. 

"  With  an  actress,"  said  Dorian  Gray,  blushing. 

Lord  Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That  is 
a  rather  commonplace  debut!' 

"  You  would  not  say  so  if  you  saw  her,  Harry." 

"  Who  is  she  1 " 

"  Her  name  is  Sibyl  Vane." 

"  Never  heard  of  her." 

"  No  one  has.  People  will  some  day,  however. 
She  is  a  genius." 

"  My  dear  boy,  no  woman  is  a  genius.  Women 
are  a  decorative  sex.  They  never  have  anything 
to  say,  but  they  say  it  charmingly.  Women  repre- 
sent the  triumph  of  matter  over  mind,  just  as  men 
represent  the  triumph  of  mind  over  morals." 

"  Harry,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Dorian,  it  is  quite  true.  I  am  analy- 
zing women  at  present,  so  I  ought  to  know.  The 
subject  is  not  so  abstruse  as  I  thought  it  was.  I 
find  that,  ultimately,  there  are  only  two  kinds  of 

69 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

women,  the  plain  and  the  coloured.  The  plain 
women  are  very  useful.  If  you  want  to  gain  a 
reputation  for  respectability,  you  have  merely  to 
take  them  down  to  supper.  The  other  women  are 
very  charming.  They  commit  one  mistake,  how- 
ever. They  paint  in  order  to  try  and  look  young. 
Our  grandmothers  painted  in  order  to  try  and  talk 
brilliantly.  Rouge  and  esprit  used  to  go  together. 
That  is  all  over  now.  As  long  as  a  woman  can 
look  ten  years  younger  than  her  own  daughter, 
she  is  perfectly  satisfied.  As  for  conversation, 
there  are  only  five  women  in  London  w^orth  talking 
to,  and  two  of  these  can't  be  admitted  into  decent 
society.  However,  tell  me  about  your  genius. 
How  long  have  you  known  her  }  " 
"  Ah  !  Harry,  your  views  terrify  me." 
"  Never  mind  that.  How  long  have  you  known 
her  .? " 

"  About  three  weeks." 
"  And  where  did  you  come  across  her  ?  " 
"  I  will  tell  you,  Harry  ;  but  you  mustn't  be  un- 
sympathetic about  it.  After  all,  it  never  would 
have  happened  if  I  had  not  met  you.  You  filled 
me  with  a  wild  desire  to  know  everything  about 
life.  For  days  after  I  met  you,  something  seemed 
to  throb  in  my  veins.  As  I  lounged  in  the  Park, 
or  strolled  down  Piccadilly,  I  used  to  look  at  every 
one  who  passed  me,  and  wonder,  with  a  mad 
curiosity,  what  sort  of  lives  they  led.  Some  of 
them  fascinated  me.     Others  filled  me  with  terror, 

7Q 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

There  was  an  exquisite  poison  in  the  air.     I  had  a 
passion  for  sensations.  .  .  .  Well,  one  evening  about 
seven  o'clock,  I  determined  to  go  out  in  search  of 
some  adventure.     I  felt  that  this  grey,  monstrous 
London   of  ours,  with   its   myriads   of  people,  its 
sordid  sinners,  and  its  splendid  sins,  as  you  once 
phrased  it,  must  have  something  in  store  for  me.     I 
fancied  a  thousand  things.     The  mere  danger  gave 
me  a  sense  of  delight.     I   remembered  what  you 
had  said  to  me  on  that  wonderful  evening  when 
we    first    dined    together,   about    the    search    for 
beauty  being  the  real  secret  of  life.     I  don't  know 
what  I   expected,  but  I  went  out  and  wandered 
eastward,  soon  losing  my  way   in   a  labyrinth  of 
grimy  streets  and  black,  grassless  squares.     About 
half-past  eight  I  passed  by  an  absurd  little  theatre, 
with  great  flaring  gas-jets  and  gaudy  play-bills.    A 
hideous  Jew,  in  the  most  amazing  waistcoat  I  ever 
beheld  in  my   life,  was  standing  at  the  entrance, 
smoking  a  vile  cigar.     He  had  greasy  ringlets,  and 
an  enormous  diamond  blazed  in   the  centre  of  a 
soiled  shirt.     '  Have  a  box,   my   Lord  ? '    he  said, 
when  he  saw  me,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  with  an 
air  of  gorgeous    servility.     There   was   something 
about  him,  Harry,  that  amused  me.     He  was  such 
a  monster.     You  will  laugh  at  me,  I  know,  but  I 
really  went  in  and  paid  a  whole  guinea  for  the 
stage-box.     To  the  present  day  I  can't  make  out 
why  I  did  so;  and  yet  if  I  hadn't — my  dear  Harry, 
if   I    hadn't,    I    should  have   missed    the   greatest 

71 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

romance  of  my  life.  I  see  you  arc  laughing.  It 
is  horrid  of  you  !  " 

"  I  am  not  laughing,  Dorian  ;  at  least  I  am  not 
laughing  at  you.  But  you  should  not  say  the 
greatest  romance  of  your  life.  You  should  say  the 
first  romance  of  your  life.  You  will  always  be 
loved,  and  you  will  always  be  in  love  with  love.  A 
grande  passion  is  the  privilege  of  people  who  have 
nothing  to  do.  That  is  the  one  use  of  the  idle 
classes  of  a  country.  Don't  be  afraid.  There  are 
exquisite  things  in  store  for  you.  This  is  merely 
the  beginning." 

"  Do  you  think  my  nature  so  shallow  ?  "  cried 
Dorian  Gray,  angrily. 

*'  No  ;  I  think  your  nature  so  deep." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  the  people  who  love  only  once  in 
their  lives  are  really  the  shallow  people.  What 
they  call  their  loyalty,  and  their  fidelity,  I  call 
either  the  lethargy  of  custom  or  their  lack  of 
imagination.  Faithfulness  is  to  the  emotional 
life  what  consistency  is  to  the  life  of  the  in- 
tellect— simply  a  confession  of  failure.  Faithful- 
ness !  I  must  analyze  it  some  day.  The  passion 
for  property  is  in  it.  There  are  many  things 
that  we  would  throw  away  if  we  were  not  afraid 
that  others  might  pick  them  up.  But  I  don't 
want  to  interrupt  you.     Go  on  with  your  story." 

"  Well,  I  found  myself  seated  in  a  horrid  little 
private  box,  with  a  vulgar  drop-scene  staring  me  in 

72 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

the  face.  I  looked  out  from  behind  the  curtain, 
and  surveyed  the  house.  It  was  a  tawdry  affair,  all 
Cupids  and  cornucopias,  like  a  third-rate  wedding- 
cake.  The  gallery  and  pit  were  fairly  full,  but  the 
two  rows  of  dingy  stalls  were  quite  empty,  and 
there  was  hardly  a  person  in  what  I  suppose  they 
called  the  dress-circle.  Women  went  about  with 
oranges  and  ginger-beer,  and  there  was  a  terrible 
consumption  of  nuts  going  on." 

"  It  must  have  been  just  like  the  palmy  days  of 
the  British  Drama." 

"  Just  like,  I  should  fancy,  and  very  depressing. 
I  began  to  wonder  what  on  earth  I  should  do,  when 
I  caught  sight  of  the  play-bill.  What  do  you  think 
the  play  was,  Harry  ? " 

"  I  should  think  '  The  Idiot  Boy,  or  Dumb  but 
Innocent'  Our  fathers  used  to  like  that  sort  of 
piece,  I  believe.  The  longer  I  live,  Dorian,  the 
more  keenly  I  feel  that  whatever  was  good  enough 
for  our  fathers  is  not  good  enough  for  us.  In  art, 
as  in  politics,  les grandperes  ont  toujours  tort'' 

"  This  play  was  good  enough  for  us,  Harry.  It 
was  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  I  must  admit  that  I  was 
rather  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  seeing  Shakespeare 
done  in  such  a  wretched  hole  of  a  place.  Still,  I 
felt  interested,  in  a  sort  of  way.  At  any  rate,  I 
determined  to  wait  for  the  first  act.  There  was  a 
dreadful  orchestra,  presided  over  by  a  young  Hebrew 
who  sat  at  a  cracked  piano,  that  nearly  drove  me 
away,  but  at  last  the  drop-scene  was  drawn  up,  and 

73 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

the  play  began.     Romeo  was  a  stout  elderly  gen- 
tleman,  with   corked    eyebrows,  a   husky  tragedy 
voice,  and  a  figure  like  a   beer-barrel.     Mercutio 
was  almost  as  bad.     He  was  played  by  the  low- 
comedian,  who  had  introduced  gags  of  his  own  and 
was  on  most  friendly  terms  with  the  pit.    They  were 
both  as  grotesque  as  the  scenery,  and  that  looked  as 
if  it  had  come  out  of  a  country-booth.     But  Juliet ! 
Harry,  imagine  a  girl,  hardly  seventeen  years  of 
age,  with  a  little  flower-like  face,  a  small   Greek 
head  with  plaited  coils  of  dark-brown   hair,  eyes 
that  were  violet  wells  of  passion,  lips  that  were  like 
the  petals  of  a  rose.     She  was  the  loveliest  thing  I 
had  ever  seen  in.  my  life.     You  said   to  me  once 
that  pathos  left   you   unmoved,  but  that  beauty, 
mere  beauty,  could  fill  your  eyes  with  tears.     I  tell 
you,  Harry,  I  could  hardly  see  this  girl  for  the  mist 
of  tears  that  came  across  me.     And  her  voice — I 
never  heard  such  a  voice.     It  was  very  low  at  first, 
with  deep  mellow  notes,  that  seemed  to  fall  singly 
upon  one's  ear.     Then  it  became  a  little  louder, 
and  sounded  like  a  flute  or  a  distant  hautbois.     In 
the  garden-scene  it  had  all   the  tremulous  ecstasy 
that  one  hears  just  before  dawn  when  nightingales 
are  singing.     There  were  moments,  later  on,  when 
it  had  the  wild  passion  of  violins.     You  know  how 
a  voice  can  stir  one.     Your  voice  and  the  voice  of 
Sibyl  Vane  are  two  things  that  I  shall  never  forget. 
When  I  close  my  eyes,  I   hear  them,  and  each  of 
them    says    something    different.       I    don't    know 

74 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

which  to  follow.  Why  should  I  not  love  her? 
Harry,  I  do  love  her.  She  is  everything  to  me  in 
life.  Night  after  night  I  go  to  see  her  play.  One 
evening  she  is  Rosalind,  and  the  next  evening  she 
is  Imogen.  I  have  seen  her  die  in  the  gloom  of  an 
Italian  tomb,  sucking  the  poison  from  her  lover's 
lips.  I  have  watched  her  wandering  through  the 
forest  of  Arden,  disguised  as  a  pretty  boy  in  hose 
and  doublet  and  dainty  cap.  She  has  been  mad, 
and  has  come  into  the  presence  of  a  guilty  king, 
and  given  him  rue  to  wear,  and  bitter  herbs  to 
taste  of  She  has  been  innocent,  and  the  black 
hands  of  jealousy  have  crushed  her  reed-like  throat. 
I  have  seen  her  in  every  age  and  in  every  costume. 
Ordinary  women  never  appeal  to  one's  imagina- 
tion. They  are  limited  to  their  century.  No 
glamour  ever  transfigures  them.  One  knows  their 
minds  as  easily  as  one  knows  their  bonnets.  One 
can  always  find  them.  There  is  no  mystery  in  any 
of  them.  They  ride  in  the  Park  in  the  morning, 
and  chatter  at  tea-parties  in  the  afternoon.  They 
have  their  stereotyped  smile,  and  their  fashionable 
manner.  They  are  quite  obvious.  But  an  actress ! 
How  different  an  actress  is  !  Harry !  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  that  the  only  thing  worth  loving  is  an 
actress  ? " 

"  Because    I    have    loved    so    many   of    them, 
Dorian." 

"  Oh,   yes,   horrid    people   with  dyed    hair   and 
painted  faces." 

75 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

"  Don't  run  down  dyed  hair  and  painted  faces. 
There  is  an  extraordinary  charm  in  them,  some- 
times," said  Lord  Henry. 

"  I  wish  now  I  had  not  told  you  about  Sibyl 
Vane." 

"  You  could  not  have  helped  telling  me,  Dorian. 
All  through  your  life  you  will  tell  mc  everything 
you  do." 

"Yes,  Harry,  I  believe  that  is  true.  I  cannot 
help  telling  you  things.  You  have  a  curious 
influence  over  me.  If  I  ever  did  a  crime,  I  would 
come  and  confess  it  to  you.  You  would  under- 
stand me." 

"  People  like  you — the  wilful  sunbeams  of  life — 
don't  commit  crimes,  Dorian.  But  I  am  much 
obliged  for  the  compliment,  all  the  same.  And 
now  tell  me — reach  mc  the  matches,  like  a  good 
boy  :  thanks  : — what  are  your  actual  relations  with 
Sibyl  Vane?" 

Dorian  Gray  leaped  to  his  feet,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  burning  eyes.  "  Harry !  Sibyl  Vane  is 
sacred !  " 

"  It  is  only  the  sacred  things  that  are  worth 
touching,  Dorian,"  said  Lord  Henr}^  with  a  strange 
touch  of  pathos  in  his  voice.  "  But  why  should  you 
be  annoyed  }  I  suppose  she  will  belong  to  you 
some  day.  When  one  is  in  love,  one  always  begins 
by  deceiving  one's  self,  and  one  always  ends  by 
deceiving  others.  That  is  what  the  world  calls  a 
romance.     You  know  her,  at  any  rate,  I  suppose  } " 

76 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Of  course  I  know  her.  On  the  first  night  I  was 
at  the  theatre,  the  horrid  old  Jew  came  round  to 
the  box  after  the  performance  was  over,  and  offered 
to  take  me  behind  the  scenes  and  introduce  me  to 
her.  I  was  furious  with  him,  and  told  him  that 
Juliet  had  been  dead  for  hundreds  of  years,  and 
that  her  body  was  lying  in  a  marble  tomb  in 
Verona.  I  think,  from  his  blank  look  of  amaze- 
ment, that  he  was  under  the  impression  that  I 
had  taken  too  much  champagne,  or  something." 

"  I  am  not  surprised." 

"  Then  he  asked  me  if  I  wrote  for  any  of  the 
newspapers.  I  told  him  I  never  even  read  them. 
He  seemed  terribly  disappointed  at  that,  and  con- 
fided to  me  that  all  the  dramatic  critics  were  in  a 
conspiracy  against  him,  and  that  they  were  every 
one  of  them  to  be  bought." 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  was  quite  right 
there.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  judging  from 
their  appearance,  most  of  them  cannot  be  at  all 
expensive." 

"  Well,  he  seemed  to  think  they  were  beyond  his 
means,"  laughed  Dorian.  "  By  this  time,  however, 
the  lights  were  being  put  out  in  the  theatre,  and  I 
had  to  go.  He  wanted  me  to  try  some  cigars 
that  he  strongly  recommended.  I  declined.  The 
next  night,  of  course,  I  arrived  at  the  place  again. 
When  he  saw  me  he  made  me  a  low  bow,  and 
assured  me  that  I  was  a  munificent  patron  of  art. 
He  was  a  most  offensive  brute,  though  he  had  an 

11 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

extraordinary  passion  for  Shakespeare.  He  told 
me  once,  with  an  air  of  pride,  that  his  five  bank- 
ruptcies were  entirely  due  to  *  The  Bard,'  as  he 
insisted  on  calling  him.  He  seemed  to  think  it  a 
distinction." 

"  It  was  a  distinction,  my  dear  Dorian — a  great 
distinction.  Most  people  become  bankrupt  through 
having  invested  too  heavily  in  the  prose  of  life. 
To  have  ruined  one's  self  over  poetry  is  an  honour. 
But  when  did  you  first  speak  to  Miss  Sibyl 
Vane .? " 

"  The  third  night.  She  had  been  playing  Rosa- 
lind. I  could  not  help  going  round.  I  had  thrown 
her  some  flowers,  and  she  had  looked  at  me  ;  at 
least  I  fancied  that  she  had.  The  old  Jew  was 
persistent.  He  seemed  determined  to  take  me 
behind,  so  I  consented.  It  was  curious  my  not 
wanting  to  know  her,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  so." 

"  My  dear  Harry,  why  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time.  Now  I  want 
to  know  about  the  girl." 

"  Sibyl  ?  Oh,  she  was  so  shy,  and  so  gentle. 
There  is  something  of  a  child  about  her.  Her 
eyes  opened  wide  in  exquisite  wonder  when  I  told 
her  \vhat  I  thought  of  her  performance,  and  she 
seemed  quite  unconscious  of  her  power.  I  think 
we  were  both  rather  nervous.  The  old  Jew  stood 
grinning  at  the  doorway  of  the  dusty  greenroom, 
making  elaborate  speeches  about  us  both,  while  we 

78 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 


• 


stood  looking  at  each  other  h'ke  children.  He 
would  insist  on  calling  me  *  My  Lord/  so  I  had 
to  assure  Sibyl  that  I  was  not  anything  of  the 
kind.  She  said  quite  simply  to  me,  '  You  look 
more  like  a  prince.  I  must  call  you  Prince 
Charming.' " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Dorian,  Miss  Sibyl  knows  how 
to  pay  compliments." 

"  You  don't  understand  her,  Harry.  She  re- 
garded me  merely  as  a  person  in  a  play.  She 
knows  nothing  of  life.  She  lives  with  her  mother, 
a  faded  tired  woman  who  played  Lady  Capulet 
in  a  sort  of  magenta  dressing  -  wrapper  on  the 
first  night,  and  looks  as  if  she  had  seen  better 
days." 

"  I  know  that  look.  It  depresses  me,"  murmured 
Lord  Henry,  examining  his  rings. 

"  The  Jew  wanted  to  tell  me  her  history,  but  I 
said  it  did  not  interest  me." 

"  You  were  quite  right.  There  is  always  some- 
thing infinitely  mean  about  other  people's  tra- 
gedies." 

"  Sibyl  is  the  only  thing  I  care  about.  What 
is  it  to  me  where  she  came  from  ?  From  her 
little  head  to  her  little  feet,  she  is  absolutely 
and  entirely  divine.  Every  night  of  my  life  I  go 
to  see  her  act,  and  every  night  she  is  more 
marvellous." 

"  That  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  you  never 
dine  with  me  now.     I  thought  you  must  have  some 

79 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

curious  romance  on  hand.  You  have  ;  but  it  is  not 
quite  what  I  expected." 

"  My  dear  Harry,  we  either  lunch  or  sup  together 
every  day,  and  I  have  been  to  the  Opera  with  you 
several  times,"  said  Dorian,  opening  his  blue  eyes 
in  wonder. 

"You  always  come  dreadfully  late." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  going  to  see  Sibyl  play,"  he 
cried,  "  even  if  it  is  only  for  a  single  act.  I  get 
hungry  for  her  presence ;  and  when  I  think  of  the 
wonderful  soul  that  is  hidden  away  in  that  little 
ivory  body,  I  am  filled  with  awe." 

"  You  can  dine  with  me  to-night,  Dorian,  can't 
you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  To-night  she  is  Imogen," 
he  answered,  "  and  to-morrow  night  she  will  be 
Juliet." 

"  When  is  she  Sibyl  Vane  }  " 

"  Never." 

**  I  congratulate  you." 

"  How  horrid  you  are  !  She  is  all  the  great 
heroines  of  the  world  in  one.  She  is  more  than  an 
individual.  You  laugh,  but  I  tell  you  she  has 
genius.  I  love  her,  and  I  must  make  her  love  me. 
You,  who  know  all  the  secrets  of  life,  tell  me  how 
to  charm  Sibyl  Vane  to  love  me  !  I  want  to  make 
Romeo  jealous.  I  want  the  dead  lovers  of  the 
world  to  hear  our  laughter,  and  grow  sad.  I  want 
a  breath  of  our  passion  to  stir  their  dust  into  con- 
sciousness, to   wake    their  ashes  into  pain.      My 

80 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

God,  Harry,  how  I  worship  her  !  "  He  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  room  as  he  spoke.  Hectic  spots 
of  red  burned  on  his  cheeks.  He  was  terribly 
excited. 

Lord  Henry  watched  him  with  a  subtle  sense  of 
pleasure.  How  different  he  was  now  from  the 
shy,  frightened  boy  he  had  met  in  Basil  Hallward's 
studio !  His  nature  had  developed  like  a  flower, 
had  borne  blossoms  of  scarlet  flame.  Out  of  its 
secret  hiding-place  had  crept  his  Soul,  and  Desire 
had  come  to  meet  it  on  the  way. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  "  said  Lord 
Henry,  at  last.  * 

"  I  want  you  and  Basil  to  come  with  me  some 
night  and  see  her  act.  I  have  not  the  slightest 
fear  of  the  result.  You  are  certain  to  acknowledge 
her  genius.  Then  we  must  get  her  out  of  the 
Jew's  hands.  She  is  bound  to  him  for  three 
years — at  least  for  two  years  and  eight  months — 
from  the  present  time.  I  shall  have  to  pay  him 
something,  of  course.  When  all  that  is  settled,  I 
shall  take  a  West  End  theatre  and  bring  her  out 
properly.  She  will  make  the  world  as  mad  as  she 
has  made  me." 

"  That  would  be  impossible,  my  dear  boy  ? " 

"  Yes,  she  will.  She  has  not  merely  art,  con- 
summate art-instinct,  in  her,  but  she  has  per- 
sonality also  ;  and  you  have  often  told  me  that  it 
is  personalities,  not  principles,  that  move  the  age." 

"  Well,  what  night  shall  we  go  } " 

8i  G 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Let  me  see.  To-day  is  Tuesday.  Let  us  fix 
to-morrow.     She  plays  Juliet  to-morrow." 

"  All  right.  The  Bristol  at  eight  o'clock  ;  and 
I  will  get  Basil." 

"  Not  eight,  Harry,  please.  Half-past  six.  We 
must  be  there  before  the  curtain  rises.  You  must 
see  her  in  the  first  act,  where  she  meets  Romeo." 

"  Half-past  six !  What  an  hour !  It  will  be 
like  having  a  meat-tea,  or  reading  an  English 
novel.  It  must  be  seven.  No  gentleman  dines 
before  seven.  Shall  you  see  Basil  between  this 
and  then  ?     Or  shall  I  write  to  him  ?  " 

"  Dear  Basil !  I  have  not  laid  iyes  on  him  for 
a  week.  It  is  rather  horrid  of  me,  as  he  has  sent 
me  my  portrait  in  the  most  wonderful  frame, 
specially  designed  by  himself,  and,  though  I  am 
a  little  jealous  of  the  picture  for  being  a  whole 
month  younger  than  I  am,  I  must  admit  that  I 
delight  in  it.  Perhaps  you  had  better  write  to 
him.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  alone.  He  says 
things  that  annoy  me.     He  gives  me  good  advice." 

Lord  Henry  smiled.  "  People  are  very  fond  of 
giving  away  what  they  need  most  themselves.  It 
is  what  I  call  the  depth  of  generosity." 

"  Oh,  Basil  is  the  best  of  fellows,  but  he  seems 
to  me  to  be  just  a  bit  of  a  Philistine.  Since  I 
have  known  you,  Harry,  I  have  discovered  that." 

"  Basil,  my  dear  boy,  puts  everything  that  is 
charming  in  him  into  his  work.  The  consequence 
is  that  he  has  nothing  left  for  life  but  his  prejudices, 

82 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

his  principles,  and  his  common  sense.  The  only- 
artists  I  have  ever  known,  who  are  personally  de- 
lightful, are  bad  artists.  Good  artists  exist  simply 
in  what  they  make,  and  consequently  are  perfectly 
uninteresting  in  what  they  are.  A  great  poet,  a 
really  great  poet,  is  the  most  unpoetical  of  all 
creatures.  But  inferior  poets  are  absolutely  fas- 
cinating. The  worse  their  rhymes  are,  the  more 
picturesque  they  look.  The  mere  fact  of  having 
published  a  book  of  second-rate  sonnets  makes  a 
man  quite  irresistible.  He  lives  the  poetry  that  he 
cannot  write.  The  others  write  the  poetry  that 
they  dare  not  realize." 

"  I  wonder  is  that  really  so,  Harry  ? "  said 
Dorian  Gray,  putting  some  perfume  on  his  hand- 
kerchief out  of  a  large  gold-topped  bottle  that 
stood  on  the  table.  "  It  must  be,  if  you  say  it. 
And  now  I  am  off.  Imogen  is  waiting  for  me. 
Don't  forget  about  to-morrow.     Good-bye." 

As  he  left  the  room.  Lord  Henry's  heavy  eyelids 
drooped,  and  he  began  to  think.  Certainly  few 
people  had  ever  interested  him  so  much  as  Dorian 
Gray,  and  yet  the  lad's  mad  adoration  of  some  one 
else  caused  him  not  the  slightest  pang  of  annoy- 
ance or  jealousy.  He  was  pleased  by  it.  It  made 
him  a  more  interesting  study.  He  had  been 
always  enthralled  by  the  methods  of  natural 
science,  but  the  ordinary  subject-matter  of  that 
science  had  seemed  to  him  trivial  and  of  no 
import.      And    so   he  had    begun   by    vivisecting 

83 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

himself,  as  he  had  ended  by  vivisecting  others. 
Human  h*fe — that  appeared  to  him  the  one 
thing  worth  investigating.  Compared  to  it  there 
was  nothing  else  of  any  value.  It  was  true  that 
as  one  watched  life  in  its  curious  crucible  of  pain 
and  pleasure,  one  could  not  wear  over  one's  face 
a  mask  of  glass,  nor  keep  the  sulphurous  fumes 
from  troubling  the  brain  and  making  the  imagina- 
tion turbid  with  monstrous  fancies  and  misshapen 
dreams.  There  were  poisons  so  subtle  that  to 
know  their  properties  one  had  to  sicken  of  them. 
There  were  maladies  so  strange  that  one  had  to 
pass  through  them  if  one  sought  to  understand 
their  nature.  And,  yet,  what  a  great  reward  one 
received  !  How  wonderful  the  whole  world  became 
to  one  !  To  note  the  curious  hard  logic  of  passion, 
and  the  emotional  coloured  life  of  the  intellect — to 
observe  where  they  met,  and  where  they  separated, 
at  what  point  they  were  in  unison,  and  at  what  point 
they  were  at  discord — there  was  a  delight  in  that ! 
What  matter  what  the  cost  was  ?  One  could  never 
pay  too  high  a  price  for  any  sensation. 

He  was  conscious — and  the  thought  brought  a 
gleam  of  pleasure  into  his  brown  agate  eyes — that 
it  was  through  certain  words  of  his,  musical  words 
said  with  musical  utterance,  that  Dorian  Gray's 
soul  had  turned  to  this  white  girl  and  bowed  in 
worship  before  her.  To  a  large  extent  the  lad 
was  his  own  creation.  He  had  made  him  pre- 
mature.    That   was  something.     Ordinary  people 

«4 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

waited  till  life  disclosed  to  them  its  secrets,  but  to 
the  few,  to  the  elect,  the  mysteries  of  life  were 
revealed  before  the  veil  was  drawn  away.  Some- 
times this  was  the  effect  of  art,  and  chiefly  of  the 
art  of  literature,  which  dealt  immediately  with  the 
passions  and  the  intellect.  But  now  and  then  a 
complex  personality  took  the  place  and  assumed 
the  office  of  art,  was  indeed,  in  its  way,  a  real  work 
of  art.  Life  having  its  elaborate  masterpieces,  just 
as  poetry  has,  or  sculpture,  or  painting. 

Yes,  the  lad  was  premature.  He  was  gathering 
his  harvest  while  it  was  yet  spring.  The  pulse 
and  passion  of  youth  were  in  him,  but  he  was 
becoming  self-conscious.  It  was  delightful  to 
watch  him.  With  his  beautiful  face,  and  his 
beautiful  soul,  he  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at.  It 
was  no  matter  how  it  all  ended,  or  was  destined  to 
end.  He  was  like  one  of  those  gracious  figures  in 
a  pageant  or  a  play,  whose  joys  seem  to  be  remote 
from  one,  but  whose  sorrows  stir  one's  sense  of 
beauty,  and  whose  wounds  are  like  red  roses. 

Soul  and  body,  body  and  soul — how  mysterious 
they  were !  There  was  animalism  in  the  soul, 
and  the  body  had  its  moments  of  spirituality. 
The  senses  could  refine,  and  the  intellect  could 
degrade.  Who  could  say  where  the  fleshly  impulse 
ceased,  or  the  psychical  impulse  began  ?  How 
shallow  were  the  arbitrary  definitions  of  ordinary 
psychologists  !  And  yet  how  difficult  to  decide 
between  the  claims  of  the  various  schools  !     Was 

85 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

the  soul  a  shadow  seated  in  the  house  of  sin  ?  Or 
was  the  body  really  in  the  soul,  as  Giordano  Bruno 
thought  ?  The  separation  of  spirit  from  matter 
was  a  mystery,  and  the  union  of  spirit  with  matter 
was  a  mystery  also. 

He  began  to  wonder  whether  we  could  ever 
make  psychology  so  absolute  a  science  that  each 
little  spring  of  life  would  be  revealed  to  us.  As  it 
was,  we  always  misunderstood  ourselves,  and  rarely 
understood  others.  Experience  was  of  no  ethical 
value.  It  was  merely  the  name  men  gave  to  their 
mistakes.  Moralists  had,  as  a  rule,  regarded  it  as 
a  mode  of  warning,  had  claimed  for  it  a  certain 
ethical  efficacy  in  the  formation  of  character,  had 
praised  it  as  something  that  taught  us  what  to 
follow  and  showed  us  what  to  avoid.  But  there 
was  no  motive  power  in  experience.  It  was  as 
little  of  an  active  cause  as  conscience  itself  All 
that  it  really  demonstrated  was  that  our  future 
would  be  the  same  as  our  past,  and  that  the  sin 
we  had  done  once,  and  with  loathing,  we  would  do 
many  times,  and  with  joy. 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  the  experimental  method 
was  the  only  method  by  which  one  could  arrive 
at  any  scientific  analysis  of  the  passions  ;  and 
certainly  Dorian  Gray  was  a  subject  made  to  his 
hand,  and  seemed  to  promise  rich  and  fruitful 
results.  His  sudden  mad  love  for  Sibyl  Vane 
was  a  psychological  phenomenon  of  no  small 
interest.     There  was  no  doubt  that  curiosity  had 

86' 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

much  to  do  with  it,  curiosity  and  the  desire  for 
new  experiences ;  yet  it  was  not  a  simple  but 
rather  a  very  complex  passion.  What  there  was 
in  it  of  the  purely  sensuous  instinct  of  boyhood 
had  been  transformed  by  the  workings  of  the 
imagination,  changed  into  something  that  seemed 
to  the  lad  himself  to  be  remote  from  sense,  and 
was  for  that  very  reason  all  the  more  dangerous. 
It  was  the  passions  about  whose  origin  we  deceived 
ourselves  that  tyrannized  most  strongly  over  us. 
Our  weakest  motives  were  those  of  whose  nature 
we  were  conscious.  It  often  happened  that  when 
we  thought  we  were  experimenting  on  others  we 
were  really  experimenting  on  ourselves. 

While  Lord  Henry  sat  dreaming  on  these 
things,  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  his  valet 
entered,  and  reminded  him  it  was  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  He  got  up  and  looked  out  into  the  street. 
The  sunset  had  smitten  into  scarlet  gold  the  upper 
windows  of  the  houses  opposite.  The  panes 
glowed  like  plates  of  heated  metal.  The  sky 
above  was  like  a  faded  rose.  He  thought  of  his 
friend's  young  fiery -coloured  life,  and  wondered 
how  it  was  all  going  to  end. 

When  he  arrived  home,  about  half-past  twelve 
o'clock,  he  saw  a  telegram  lying  on  the  hall  table. 
He  opened  it,  and  found  it  was  from  Dorian  Gray. 
It  was  to  tell  him  that  he  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  Sibyl  Vane. 


87 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  1\  /T  O'^^E^'  mother,  I  am  so  happy  !  "  whis- 

iVl  pered  the  girl,  burying  her  face  in  the  lap 
of  the  faded,  tired-looking  woman  who,  with  back 
turned  to  the  shrill  intrusive  light,  was  sitting  in 
the  one  arm-chair  that  their  dingy  sitting-room 
contained.  "  I  am  so  happy  !  "  she  repeated,  "and 
you  must  be  happy  too  !  " 

Mrs.  Vane  winced,  and  put  her  thin  bismuth- 
whitened  hands  on  her  daughter's  head.  "Happy!" 
she  echoed,  "  I  am  only  happy,  Sibyl,  when  I  see 
you  act.  You  must  not  think  of  anything  but 
your  acting.  Mr.  Isaacs  has  been  very  good  to 
us,  and  we  owe  him  money." 

The  girl  looked  up  and  pouted.  "  Money, 
mother  ? "  she  cried,  "  what  does  money  matter  ? 
Love  is  more  than  money." 

"  Mr.  Isaacs  has  advanced  us  fifty  pounds  to  pay 
off  our  debts,  and  to  get  a  proper  outfit  for  James. 
You  must  not  forget  that,  Sibyl.  Fifty  pounds  is 
a  very  large  sum.  Mr.  Isaacs  has  been  most  con- 
siderate." 

"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,  mother,  and  I  hate  the 
88 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

way  he  talks  to  me,"  said  the  girl,  rising  to  her  feet, 
and  going  over  to  the  window. 

"  I  don't  know  how  we  could  manage  without 
him,"  answered  the  elder  woman,  querulously. 

Sibyl  Vane  tossed  her  head  and  laughed.  "  We 
don't  want  him  any  more,  mother.  Prince  Charm- 
ing rules  life  for  us  now."  Then  she  paused.  A 
rose  shook  in  her  blood,  and  shadowed  her  cheeks. 
Quick  breath  parted  the  petals  of  her  lips.  They 
trembled.  Some  southern  wind  of  passion  swept 
over  her,  and  stirred  the  dainty  folds  of  her  dress. 
''  I  love  him,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Foolish  child  !  foolish  child  !  "  was  the  parrot- 
phrase  flung  in  answer.  The  waving  of  crooked, 
false-jewelled  fingers  gave  grotesqueness  to  the 
words. 

The  girl  laughed  again.  The  joy  of  a  caged 
bird  was  in  her  voice.  Her  eyes  caught  the 
melody,  and  echoed  it  in  radiance  :  then  closed  for 
a  moment,  as  though  to  hide  their  secret.  When 
they  opened,  the  mist  of  a  dream  had  passed  across 
them. 

Thin-lipped  wisdom  spoke  at  her  from  the  worn 
chair,  hinted  at  prudence,  quoted  from  that  book  of 
cowardice  whose  author  apes  the  name  of  common 
sense.  She  did  not  listen.  She  was  free  in  her 
prison  of  passion.  Her  prince.  Prince  Charming, 
was  with  her.  She  had  called  on  Memory  to 
remake  him.  She  had  sent  her  soul  to  search  for 
him,  and  it  had  brought  him  back.    His  kiss  burned 

89 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  CRA  V. 

again  upon   her  mouth.     Her  eyelids  were  warm 
with  his  breath. 

Then  Wisdom  altered  its  method  and  spoke  of 
espial  and  discovery.  This  young  man  might  be 
rich.  If  so,  marriage  should  be  thought  of. 
Against  the  shell  of  her  ear  broke  the.  waves  of 
worldly  cunning.  The  arrows  of  craft  shot  by 
her.     She  saw  the  thin  lips  moving,  and  smiled. 

Suddenly  she  felt  the  need  to  speak.  The 
wordy  silence  troubled  her.  "  Mother,  mother," 
she  cried,  "  why  does  he  love  me  so  much  ?  I  know 
why  I  love  him.  I  love  him  because  he  is  like 
what  Love  himself  should,  be.  But  what  does  he 
see  in  me  .-*  I  am  not  worthy  of  him.  And  yet — 
why,  I  cannot  tell — though  I  feel  so  much  beneath 
him,  I  don't  feel  humble.  I  feel  proud,  terribly 
proud.  Mother,  did  you  love  my  father  as  I  love 
Prince  Charming  ?  " 

The  elder  woman  grew  pale  beneath  the  coarse 
powder  that  daubed  her  cheeks,  and  her  dry  lips 
twitched  with  a  spasm  of  pain.  Sybil  rushed  to 
her,  flung  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and  kissed  her. 
"  Forgive  me,  mother.  I  know  it  pains  you  to  talk 
about  our  father.  But  it  only  pains  you  because 
you  loved  him  so  much.  Don't  look  so  sad.  I 
am  as  happy  to-day  as  you  were  twenty  years  ago. 
Ah  !  let  me  be  happy  for  ever  !  " 

"  My  child,  you  are  far  too  young  to  think  of 
falling  in  love.  Besides,  what  do  you  know  of  this 
young   man  ?     You   don't   even    know   his  name. 

90 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

The  whole  thing  is  most  inconvenient,  and  really, 
when  James  is  going  away  to  Australia,  and  I  have 
so  much  to  think  of,  I  must  say  that  you  should 
have  shown  more  consideration.  However,  as  I 
said  before,  if  he  is  rich  ..." 

"  Ah  !  mother,  mother,  let  me  be  happy  !  " 

Mrs.  Vane  glanced  at  her,  and  with  one  of  those 
false  theatrical  gestures  that  so  often  become  a 
mode  of  second  nature  to  a  stage-player,  clasped 
her  in  her  arms.  At  this  moment  the  door  opened, 
and  a  young  lad  with  rough  brown  hair  came  into 
the  room.  He  was  thick-set  of  figure,  and  his 
hands  and  feet  were  large,  and  somewhat  clumsy 
in  movement.  He  was  not  so  finely  bred  as  his 
sister.  One  would  hardly  have  guessed  the  close 
relationship  that  existed  between  them.  Mrs. 
Vane  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  and  intensified  her 
smile.  She  mentally  elevated  her  son  to  the 
dignity  of  an  audience.  She  felt  sure  that  the 
tableau  was  interesting. 

"  You  might  keep  some  of  your  kisses  for  me, 
Sibyl,  I  think,"  said  the  lad,  with  a  good-natured 
grumble. 

"  Ah !  but  you  don't  like  being  kissed,  Jim," 
she  cried.  "  You  are  a  dreadful  old  bear."  And 
she  ran  across  the  room  and  hugged  him. 

James  Vane  looked  into  his  sister's  face  with 
tenderness.  "  I  want  you  to  come  out  with  me  for 
a  walk,  Sibyl.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  see  this 
horrid  London  again.     I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to." 

91 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  My  son,  don't  say  such  dreadful  things,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Vane,  taking  up  a  tawdry  theatrical 
dress,  with  a  sigh,  and  beginning  to  patch  it.  She 
felt  a  little  disappointed  that  he  had  not  joined  the 
group.  It  would  have  increased  the  theatrical  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  situation. 

"  Why  not,  mother  ?     I  mean  it." 

"  You  pain  me,  my  son.  I  trust  you  w^ill  return 
from  Australia  in  a  position  of  affluence.  I  believe 
there  is  no  society  of  any  kind  in  the  Colonies, 
nothing  that  I  would  call  society ;  so  when  you 
have  made  your  fortune  you  must  come  back  and 
assert  yourself  in  London." 

"  Society  !  "  muttered  the  lad.  "  I  don't  want  to 
know  anything  about  that.  I  should  like  to  make 
some  money  to  take  you  and  Sibyl  off  the  stage. 
I  hate  it." 

"Oh,  Jim!"  said  Sibyl,  laughing,  "how  unkind 
of  you  !  But  are  you  really  going  for  a  walk  with 
me  ?  That  will  be  nice !  I  was  afraid  you  were 
going  to  say  good-bye  to  some  of  your  friends — to 
Tom  Hardy,  who  gave  you  that  hideous  pipe,  or 
Ned  Langton,  who  makes  fun  of  you  for  smoking 
it.  It  is  v^ery  sweet  of  you  to  let  me  have  your 
last  afternoon.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  Let  us  go 
to  the  Park." 

"  I  am  too  shabby,"  he  answered,  frowning. 
"  Only  swell  people  go  to  the  Park." 

"  Nonsense,  Jim,"  she  whispered,  stroking  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat. 

92 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  Very  well,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  but  don't  be  too  long  dressing."  She 
danced  out  of  the  door.  One  could  hear  her  sing- 
ing as  she  ran  upstairs.  Her  little  feet  pattered 
overhead. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  two  or  three 
times.  Then  he  turned  to  the  still  figure  in  the 
chair.     "  Mother,  are  my  things  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quite  ready,  James,"  she  answered,  keeping  her 
eyes  on  her  work.  For  some  months  past  she  had 
felt  ill  at  ease  when  she  was  alone  with  this  rough, 
stern  son  of  hers.  Her  shallow  secret  nature  was 
troubled  when  their  eyes  met.  She  used  to  wonder 
if  he  suspected  anything.  The  silence,  for  he  made 
no  other  observation,  became  intolerable  to  her. 
She  began  to  complain.  Women  defend  them- 
selves by  attacking,  just  as  they  attack  by  sudden 
and  strange  surrenders.  "  I  hope  you  will  be  con- 
tented, James,  with  your  sea-faring  life,"  she  said. 
"  You  must  remember  that  it  is  your  own  choice. 
You  might  have  entered  a  solicitor's  office. 
Solicitors  are  a  very  respectable  class,  and  in  the 
country  often  dine  with  the  best  families." 

"  1  hate  offices,  and  I  hate  clerks,"  he  replied. 
"  But  you  are  quite  right.  I  have  chosen  my  own 
life.  All  I  say  is,  watch  over  Sibyl.  Don*t  let  her 
come  to  any  harm.  Mother,  you  must  watch  over 
her." 

"James,  you  really  talk  very  strangely.  Of 
course  I  watch  over  Sibyl." 

93 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

"  I  hear  a  gentleman  comes  every  night  to  the 
theatre,  and  goes  behind  to  talk  to  her.  Is  that 
right  ?     What  about  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  speaking  about  things  you  don't  under- 
stand, James.  In  the  profession  we  are  accustomed 
to  receive  a  great  deal  of  most  gratifying  attention. 
I  myself  used  to  receive  many  bouquets  at  one 
time.  That  was  when  acting  was  really  understood. 
As  for  Sibyl,  I  do  not  know  at  present  whether 
her  attachment  is  serious  or  not.  But  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  young  man  in  question  is  a  perfect 
gentleman.  He  is  always  most  polite  to  me. 
Besides,  he  has  the  appearance  of  being  rich,  and 
the  flowers  he  sends  are  lovely." 

"  You  don't  know  his  name,  though,"  said  the 
lad,  harshly. 

"  No,"  answered  his  mother,  with  a  placid  ex- 
pression in  her  face.  "  He  has  not  yet  revealed 
his  real  name.  I  think  it  is  quite  romantic 
of  him.  He  is  probably  a  member  of  the 
aristocracy." 

James  Vane  bit  his  lip.  "Watch  over  Sibyl, 
mother,"  he  cried,  *•  watch  over  her." 

"  My  son,  you  distress  me  very  much.  Sibyl  is 
always  under  my  special  care.  Of  course,  if  this 
gentleman  is  wealthy,  there  is  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  contract  an  alliance  with  him.  I  trust 
he  is  one  of  the  aristocracy.  He  has  all  the 
appearance  of  it,  I  must  say.  It  might  be  a  most 
brilliant  marriage  for  Sibyl.     They  would  make  a 

94 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

charming  couple.  His  good  looks  are  really  quite 
remarkable  ;  everybody  notices  them." 

The  lad  muttered  something  to  himself,  and 
drummed  on  the  window-pane  with  his  coarse 
fingers.  He  had  just  turned  round  to  say  some- 
thing, when  the  door  opened,  and  Sibyl  ran  in. 

"  How  serious  you  both  are!"  she  cried.  "What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered.  "  I  suppose  one  must 
be  serious  sometimes.  Good-bye,  mother  ;  I  will 
have  my  dinner  at  five  o'clock.  Everything  is 
packed,  except  my  shirts,  so  you  need  not  trouble." 

"  Good-bye,  my  son,"  she  answered,  with  a  bow 
of  strained  stateliness. 

She  was  extremely  annoyed  at  the  tone  he  had 
adopted  with  her,  and  there  was  something  in  his 
look  that  had  made  her  feel  afraid. 

"  Kiss  me,  mother,"  said  the  girl.  Her  fiower- 
like  lips  touched  the  withered  cheek,  and  warmed 
its  frost. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vane,  look- 
ing up  to  the  ceiling  in  search  of  an  imaginary 
gallery. 

"  Come,  Sibyl,"  said  her  brother,  impatiently. 
He  hated  his  mother's  affectations. 

They  went  out  into  the  flickering  wind-blown 
sunlight,  and  strolled  down  the  dreary  Euston 
Road.  The  passers-by  glanced  in  wonder  at  the 
sullen,  heavy  youth,  who,  in  coarse,  ill-fitting  clothes, 
was  in  the  company  of  such  a  graceful,  refined- 

95 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

looking  girl.     He  was   like   a   common   gardener 
walking  with  a  rose. 

Jim  frowned  from  time  to  time  when  he  caught 
the  inquisitive  glance  of  some  stranger.  He  had 
that  dislike  of  being  stared  at  which  comes  on 
geniuses  late  in  life,  and  never  leaves  the  common- 
place. Sibyl,  however,  was  quite  unconscious  of 
the  effect  she  was  producing.  Her  love  was 
trembling  in  laughter  on  her  lips.  She  was  think- 
ing of  Prince  Charming,  and,  that  she  might  think 
of  him  all  the  more,  she  did  not  talk  of  him,  but 
prattled  on  about  the  ship  in  which  Jim  was  going 
to  sail,  about  the  gold  he  was  certain  to  find,  about 
the  wonderful  heiress  whose  life  he  was  to  save 
from  the  wicked,  red-shirted  bushrangers.  For  he 
was  not  to  remain  a  sailor,  or  a  super-cargo,  or 
whatever  he  was  going  to  be.  Oh,  no  !  A  sailor's 
existence  was  dreadful.  Fancy  being  cooped  up 
in  a  horrid  ship,  with  the  hoarse,  hump-backed 
waves  trying  to  get  in,  and  a  black  wind  blowing 
the  masts  down,  and  tearing  the  sails  into  long 
screaming  ribands  !  He  was  to  leave  the  vessel  at 
Melbourne,  bid  a  polite  good-bye  to  the  captain, 
and  go  off  at  once  to  the  gold-fields.  Before  a 
week  was  over  he  was  to  come  across  a  large 
nugget  of  pure  gold,  the  largest  nugget  that  had 
ever  been  discovered,  and  bring  it  down  to  the 
coast  in  a  waggon  guarded  by  six  mounted  police- 
men. The  bushrangers  were  to  attack  them  three 
times,  and   be   defeated   with  immense  slaughter. 

96 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Or,  no.  He  was  not  to  go  to  the  gold-fields  at  all. 
They  were  horrid  places,  where  men  got  intoxi- 
cated, and  shot  each  other  in  bar-rooms,  and  used 
bad  language.  He  was  to  be  a  nice  sheep-farmer, 
and  one  evening,  as  he  was  riding  home,  he  was  to 
see  the  beautiful  heiress  being  carried  off  by  a 
robber  on  a  black  horse,  and  give  chase,  and  rescue 
her.  Of  course  she  would  fall  in  love  with  him, 
and  he  with  her,  and  they  would  get  married,  and 
come  home,  and  live  in  an  immense  house  in 
London.  Yes,  there  were  delightful  things  in  store 
for  him.  But  he  must  be  very  good,  and  not  lose 
his  temper,  or  spend  his  money  foolishly.  She 
was  only  a  year  older  than  he  was,  but  she  knew 
so  much  more  of  life.  He  must  be  sure,  also,  to 
write  to  her  by  every  mail,  and  to  say  his  prayers 
each  night  before  he  went  to  sleep.  God  was  very 
good,  and  would  watch  over  him.  She  would  pray 
for  him  too,  and  in  a  few  years  he  would  come 
back  quite  rich  and  happy. 

The  lad  listened  sulkily  to  her,  and  made  no 
answer.     He  was  heart-sick  at  leaving  home. 

Yet  it  was  not  this  alone  that  made  him  gloomy 
and  morose.  Inexperienced  though  he  was,  he 
had  still  a  strong  sense  of  the  danger  of  Sibyl's 
position.  This  young  dandy  who  was  making 
love  to  her  could  mean  her  no  good.  He  was  a 
gentleman,  and  he  hated  him  for  that,  hated  him 
through  some  curious  race-instinct  for  which  he 
could  not  account,  and  which  for  that  reason  was 

97  H 


THE  PICTURE  OE  DORIAX  GRA  Y. 

all  the  more  dominant  within  him.  He  was  con- 
scious also  of  the  shallowness  and  vanity  of  his 
mother's  nature,  and  in  that  saw  infinite  peril  for 
Sibyl  and  Sibyl's  happiness.  Children  begin  by 
loving  their  parents  ;  as  they  grow  older  they 
judge  them  ;  sometimes  they  forgive  them. 

His  mother!  He  had  something  on  his  mind 
to  ask  of  her,  something  that  he  had  brooded  on 
for  many  months  of  silence.  A  chance  phrase 
that  he  had  heard  at  the  theatre,  a  whispered  sneer 
that  had  reached  his  ears  one  night  as  he  waited  at 
the  stage-door,  had  set  loose  a  train  of  horrible 
thoughts.  He  remembered  it  as  if  it  had  been  the 
lash  of  a  hunting-crop  across  his  face.  His  brows 
knit  together  into  a  wedge-like  furrow,  and  with  a 
twitch  of  pain  he  bit  his  under-lip. 

"  You  arc  not  listening  to  a  word  I  am  saying, 
Jim,"  cried  Sibyl,  "  and  I  am  making  the  most 
delightful  plans  for  your  future.  Do  say  some- 
thing." 

*'  What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ? " 

"  Oh  !  that  you  will  be  a  good  boy,  'and  not  for- 
get us,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  are  more 
likely  to  forget  me,  than  I  am  to  forget  you,  Sibyl." 

She  flushed.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Jim  "^  "  she 
asked. 

"  You  have  a  new  friend,  I  hear.  Who  is  he  ? 
Why  have  you  not  told  me  about  him  ?  He  means 
you  no  good." 

98 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

"  Stop,  Jim  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  must  not 
say  anything  against  him.     I  love  him." 

*'Why,  you  don't  even  know  his  name,"  an- 
swered the  lad.  "  Who  is  he  ?  I  have  a  right  to 
know." 

"  He  is  called  Prince  Charming.  Don't  you  like 
the  name.  Oh  !  you  silly  boy  !  you  should  never 
forget  it.  If  you  only  saw  him,  you  would  think 
him  the  most  wonderful  person  in  the  world. 
Some  day  you  will  meet  him  :  when  you  come 
back  from  Australia.  You  will  like  him  so  much. 
Everybody  likes  him,  and  I  .  .  .  love  him.  I  wish 
you  could  come  to  the  theatre  to-night.  He  is 
going  to  be  there,  and  I  am  to  play  Juliet.  Oh ! 
how  I  shall  play  it !  Fancy,  Jim,  to  be  in  love  and 
play  Juliet !  To  have  him  sitting  there  !  To  play 
for  his  delight !  I  am  afraid  I  may  frighten  the 
company,  frighten  or  enthrall  them.  To  be  in  love 
is  to  surpass  one's  self.  Poor  dreadful  Mr.  Isaacs 
will  be  shouting  *  genius '  to  his  loafers  at  the 
bar.  He  has  preached  me  as  a  dogma  ;  to-night  he 
will  announce  me  as  a  revelation.  I  feel  it.  And 
it  is  all  his,  his  only.  Prince  Charming,  my  wonder- 
ful lover,  my  god  of  graces.  But  I  am  poor 
beside  him.  Poor?  What  does  that  matter? 
When  poverty  creeps  in  at  the  door,  love  flies  in 
through  the  window.  Our  proverbs  want  re- 
writing. They  were  made  in  winter,  and  it  is 
summer  now  ;  spring-time  for  me,  I  think,  a  very 
dance  of  blossoms  in  blue  skies." 

99 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,"  said  the  lad,  sullenly. 

"  A  Prince  !  "  she  cried,  musically.  "  What  more 
do  you  want  ?  " 

"  He  wants  to  enslave  you." 

"  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  being  free." 

"  I  want  you  to  beware  of  him." 

"  To  see  him  is  to  worship  him,  to  know  him  is 
to  trust  him." 

"  Sibyl,  you  are  mad  about  him." 

She  laughed,  and  took  his  arm.  "  You  dear 
old  Jim,  you  talk  as  if  you  were  a  hundred. 
Some  day  you  will  be  in  love  yourself  Then 
you  will  know  what  it  is.  Don't  look  so  sulky. 
Surely  you  should  be  glad  to  think  that,  though 
you  are  going  away,  you  leave  me  happier  than 
I  have  ever  been  before.  Life  has  been  hard 
for  us  both,  terribly  hard  and  difficult.  But  it  will 
be  different  now.  You  are  going  to  a  new  world, 
and  I  have  found  one.  Here  are  two  chairs  ;  let 
us  sit  down  and  see  the  smart  people  go  by." 

They  took  their  seats  amidst  a  crowd  of  watchers. 
The  tulip-beds  across  the  road  flamed  like  throb- 
bing rings  of  fire.  A  white  dust,  tremulous  cloud 
of  orris-root  it  seemed,  hung  in  the  panting  air. 
The  brightly-coloured  parasols  danced  and  dipped 
like  monstrous  butterflies. 

She  made  her  brother  talk  of  himself,  his  hopes, 
his  prospects.  He  spoke  slowly  and  with  effort. 
They  passed  words  to  each  other  as  players  at  a 
game  pass  counters.     Sibyl  felt   oppressed.     She 

100 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K. 

could  not  communicate  her  joy.  A  faint  smile 
curving  that  sullen  mouth  was  all  the  echo  she 
could  win.  After  some  time  she  became  silent. 
Suddenly  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  golden  hair  and 
laughing  lips,  and  in  an  open  carriage  with  two 
ladies  Dorian  Gray  drove  past. 

She  started  to  her  feet.  "  There  he  is !  "  she 
cried. 

"Who?"  said  Jim  Vane. 

"Prince  Charming,"  she  answered,  looking  after 
the  victoria. 

He  jumped  up,  and  seized  her  roughly  by  the 
arm.  "  Show  him  to  me.  Which  is  he  ?  Point  him 
out.  I  must  see  him  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  but  at  that 
moment  the  Duke  of  Berwick's  four-in-hand  came 
between,  and  when  it  had  left  the  space  clear,  the 
carriage  had  swept  out  of  the  Park. 

"  He  is  gone,"  murmured  Sibyl,  sadly.  "  I  wish 
you  had  seen  him." 

"  I  wish  I  had,  for  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  if  he  ever  does  you  any  wrong,  I  shall  kill 
him." 

She  looked  at  him  in  horror.  He  repeated  his 
words.  They  cut  the  air  like  a  dagger.  The 
people  round  began  to  gape.  A  lady  standing 
close  to  her  tittered. 

"Come  away,  Jim;  come  away,"  she  whispered. 
He  followed  her  doggedly,  as  she  passed  through 
the  crowd.     He  felt  glad  at  what  he  had  said. 

When   they   reached    the    Achilles   Statue   she 

lOI 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

turned  round.  There  was  pity  in  her  eyes  that 
became  laughter  on  her  h'ps.  She  shook  her  head 
at  him.  "  You  are  foolish,  Jim,  utterly  foolish  ;  a 
bad-tempered  boy,  that  is  all.  How  can  you  say 
such  horrible  things  ?  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about.  You  are  simply  jealous  and 
unkind.  Ah!  I  wish  you  would  fall  in  love. 
Love  makes  people  good,  and  what  you  said  was 
wicked." 

"  I  am  sixteen,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  know  what 
I  am  about.  Mother  is  no  help  to  you.  She 
doesn't  understand  how  to  look  after  you.  I  wish 
now  that  I  was  not  going  to  Australia  at  all.  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  chuck  the  whole  thing  up.  I 
would,  if  my  articles  hadn't  been  signed." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  serious,  Jim.  You  are  like  one 
of  the  heroes  of  those  silly  melodramas  mother 
used  to  be  so  fond  of  acting  in.  I  am  not  going 
to  quarrel  with  you.  I  have  seen  him,  and  oh  !  to 
see  him  is  perfect  happiness.  We  won't  quarrel. 
I  know  you  would  never  harm  any  one  I  love, 
would  you  ?  " 

"  Not  as  long  as  you  love  him,  I  suppose,"  was 
the  sullen  answer. 

"  I  shall  love  him  for  ever ! "  she  cried. 

"  And  he  ?  " 

"  For  ever,  too  I  " 

"  He  had  better." 

She  shrank  from  him.  Then  she  laughed  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm.     He  was  merely  a  boy. 

I02 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

At  the  Marble  Arch  they  hailed  an  omnibus, 
which  left  them  close  to  their  shabby  home  in  the 
Euston  Road.  It  was  after  five  o'clock,  and  Sibyl 
had  to  lie  down  for  a  couple  of  hours  before  acting. 
Jim  insisted  that  she  should  do  so.  He  said  that 
he  would  sooner  part  with  her  when  their  mother 
was  not  present.  She  would  be  sure  to  make  a 
scene,  and  he  detested  scenes  of  every  kind. 

In  Sybil's  own  room  they  parted.  There  was 
jealousy  in  the  lad's  heart,  and  a  fierce,  murderous 
hatred  of  the  stranger  who,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
had  come  between  them.  Yet,  when  her  arms  were 
flung  round  his  neck,  and  her  fingers  strayed 
through  his  hair,  he  softened,  and  kissed  her  with 
real  affection.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he 
went  downstairs. 

His  mother  was  waiting  for  him  below.  She 
grumbled  at  his  unpunctuality,  as  he  entered.  He 
made  no  answer,  but  sat  down  to  his  meagre  meal. 
The  flies  buzzed  round  the  table,  and  crawled  over 
the  stained  cloth.  Through  the  rumble  of  omni- 
buses, and  the  clatter  of  street-cabs,  he  could  hear 
the  droning  voice  devouring  each  minute  that  was 
left  to  him. 

After  some  time,  he  thrust  away  his  plate,  and 
put  his  head  in  his  hands.  He  felt  that  he  had  a 
right  to  know.  It  should  have  been  told  to  him 
before,  if  it  was  as  he  suspected.  Leaden  with 
fear,  his  mother  watched  him.  Words  dropped 
mechanically  from  her  lips.  A  tattered  lace  hand- 
103 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

kerchief  twitched  in  her  fingers.  When  the  clock 
struck  six,  he  got  up,  and  went  to  the  door.  Then 
he  turned  back,  and  looked  at  her.  Their  eyes 
met.  In  hers  he  saw  a  wild  appeal  for  mercy. 
It  enraged  him. 

"  Mother,  I  have  something  to  ask  you,"  he 
said.  Her  eyes  wandered  vaguely  about  the  room. 
She  made  no  answer.  "  Tell  me  the  truth.  I 
have  a  right  to  know.  Were  you  married  to  my 
father  ?  " 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  It  was  a  sigh  of  relief. 
The  terrible  moment,  the  moment  that  night  and 
day,  for  weeks  and  months,  she  had  dreaded,  had 
come  at  last,  and  yet  she  felt  no  terror.  Indeed 
in  some  measure  it  was  a  disappointment  to  her. 
The  vulgar  directness  of  the  question  called  for  a 
direct  answer.  The  situation  had  not  been  gradually 
led  up  to.  It  was  crude.  It  reminded  her  of  a  bad 
rehearsal. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  wondering  at  the  harsh 
simplicity  of  life. 

"  My  father  was  a  scoundrel  then  !  "  cried  the  lad, 
clenching  his  fists. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  knew  he  was  not  free. 
We  loved  each  other  very  much.  If  he  had  lived, 
he  would  have  made  provision  for  us.  Don't  speak 
against  him,  my  son.  He  was  your  father,  and  a 
gentleman.     Indeed  he  was  highly  connected." 

An  oath  broke  from  his  lips.  "  I  don't  care  for 
myself,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  don't  let  Sibyl.  .  .  . 
104 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

It  is  a  gentleman,  isn't  it,  who  is  in  love  with  her, 
or  says  he  is  ?     Highly  connected,  too,  I  suppose." 

For  a  moment  a  hideous  sense  of  humiliation 
came  over  the  woman.  Her  head  drooped.  She 
wiped  her  eyes  with  shaking  hands.  "  Sibyl  has  a 
mother,"  she  murmured  ;  "  I  had  none." 

The  lad  was  touched.  He  went  towards  her, 
and  stooping  down  he  kissed  her.  "  I  am  sorry  if 
I  have  pained  you  by  asking  about  my  father," 
he  said,  "  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  must  go  now. 
Good-bye.  Don't  forget  that  you  will  have  only  one 
child  now  to  look  after,  and  believe  me  that  if  this 
man  wrongs  my  sister,  I  will  find  out  who  he  is, 
track  him  down,  and  kill  him  like  a  dog.  I  swear 
it." 

The  exaggerated  folly  of  the  threat,  the  pas- 
sionate gesture  that  accompanied  it,  the  mad 
melodramatic  words,  made  life  seem  more  vivid  to 
her.  She  was  familiar  with  the  atmosphere.  She 
breathed  more  freely,  and  for  the  first  time  for 
many  months  she  really  admired  her  son.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  continued  the  scene  on 
the  same  emotional  scale,  but  he  cut  her  short. 
Trunks  had  to  be  carried  down,  and  mufflers 
looked  for.  The  lodging-house  drudge  bustled  in 
and  out.  There  was  the  bargaining  with  the  cab- 
man. The  moment  was  lost  in  vulgar  details.  It 
was  with  a  renewed  feeling  of  disappointment  that 
she  waved  the  tattered  lace  handkerchief  from  the 
window,  as  her  son  drove  away.  She  was  conscious 
105 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

that  a  great  opportunity  had  been  wasted.  She 
consoled  herself  by  telling  Sibyl  how  desolate  she 
felt  her  life  would  be,  now  that  she  had  only  one 
child  to  look  after.  She  remembered  the  phrase. 
It  had  pleased  her.  Of  the  threat  she  said 
nothing.  It  was  vividly  and  dramatically  ex- 
pressed. She  felt  that  they  would  all  laugh  at 
it  some  day. 


io6 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  T  SUPPOSE  you  have  heard  the  news,  Basil  ?" 

1  said  Lord  Henry  that  evening,  as  Hallward 
was  shown  into  a  little  private  room  at  the  Bristol 
where  dinner  had  been  laid  for  three. 

"  No,  Harry,"  answered  the  artist,  giving  his  hat 
and  coat  to  the  bowing  waiter.  "  What  is  it  ? 
Nothing  about  politics,  I  hope  ?  They  don't 
interest  me.  There  is  hardly  a  single  person  in 
the  House  of  Commons  worth  painting  ;  though 
many  of  them  would  be  the  better  for  a  little 
whitewashing." 

"  Dorian  Gray  is  engaged  to  be  married,"  said 
Lord  Henry,  watching  him  as  he  spoke. 

Hallward  started,  and  then  frowned.  "  Dorian 
engaged  to  be  married  !  "  he  cried.     "  Impossible  !' 

"  It  is  perfectly  true." 

"To  whom?" 

"  To  some  little  actress  or  other." 

"  I  can't  believe  it.  Dorian  is  far  too 
sensible." 

"  Dorian  is  far  too  wise  not  to  do  foolish  things 
now  and  then,  my  dear  Basil." 
107 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Marriage  is  hardly  a  thing  that  one  can  do  now 
and  then,  Harry." 

"  Except  in  America,"  rejoined  Lord  Henry, 
languidly.  "  But  I  didn't  say  he  was  married.  I 
said  he  was  engaged  to  be  married.  There  is  a 
great  difference.  I  have  a  distinct  remembrance  of 
being  married,  but  I  have  no  recollection  at  all  of 
being  engaged.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  I  never 
was  engaged." 

"  But  think  of  Dorian's  birth,  and  position,  and 
wealth.  It  would  be  absurd  for  him  to  marry  so 
much  beneath  him." 

"  If  you  want  to  make  him  marry  this  girl  tell 
him  that,  Basil.  He  is  sure  to  do  it,  then.  When- 
ever a  man  does  a  thoroughly  stupid  thing,  it  is 
always  from  the  noblest  motives." 

"  I  hope  the  girl  is  good,  Harry.  I  don't  want 
to  see  Dorian  tied  to  some  vile  creature,  who  might 
degrade  his  nature  and  ruin  his  intellect." 

"Oh,  she  is  better  than  good — she  is  beautiful," 
murmured  Lord  Henry,  sipping  a  glass  of  vermouth 
and  orange-bitters.  "  Dorian  says  she  is  beautiful  ; 
and  he  is  not  often  wrong  about  things  of  that 
kind.  Your  portrait  of  him  has  quickened  his 
appreciation  of  the  personal  appearance  of  other 
people.  It  has  had  that  excellent  effect,  amongst 
others.  We  are  to  see  her  to-night,  if  that  boy 
doesn't  forget  his  appointment." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  Quite  serious,  Basil.  I  should  be  miserable  if 
io8 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

I  thought  I  should  ever  be  more  serious  than  I  am 
at  the  present  moment." 

"  But  do  you  approve  of  it,  Harry  ? "  asked 
the  painter,  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
biting  his  lip.  "  You  can't  approve  of  it,  possibly. 
It  is  some  silly  infatuation." 

"  I  never  approve,  or  disapprove,  of  anything 
now.  It  is  an  absurd  attitude  to  take  towards  life. 
We  are  not  sent  into  the  world  to  air  our  moral 
prejudices.  I  never  take  any  notice  of  what  com- 
mon people  say,  and  I  never  interfere  with  what 
charming  people  do.  If  a  personality  fascinates  me, 
whatever  mode  of  expression  that  personality  selects 
is  absolutely  delightful  to  me.  Dorian  Gray  falls 
in  love  with  a  beautiful  girl  who  acts  Juliet,  and 
proposes  to  marry  her.  Why  not  ?  If  he  wedded 
Messalina  he  would  be  none  the  less  interesting. 
You  know  I  am  not  a  champion  of  marriage.  The 
real  drawback  to  marriage  is  that  it  makes  one  un- 
selfish. And  unselfish  people  are  colourless.  They 
lack  individuality.  Still,  there  are  certain  tempera- 
ments that  marriage  makes  more  complex.  They 
retain  their  egotism,  and  add  to  it  many  other  egos. 
They  are  forced  to  have  more  than  one  life.  They 
become  more  highly  organized,  and  to  be  highly 
organized  is,  I  should  fancy,  the  object  of  man's 
existence.  Besides,  every  experience  is  of  value, 
and,  whatever  one  may  say  against  marriage,  it  is 
certainly  an  experience.  I  hope  that  Dorian  Gray 
will  make  this  girl  his  wife,  passionately  adore  her 
109 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

for  six  months,  and  then  suddenly  become  fas- 
cinated by  some  one  else.  He  would  be  a  wonder- 
ful study." 

"  You  don't  mean  a  single  word  of  all  that, 
Harry ;  you  know  you  don't.  If  Dorian  Gray's 
life  were  spoiled,  no  one  would  be  sorrier  than 
yourself.  You  are  much  better  than  you  pretend 
to  be." 

Lord  Henry  laughed.  "  The  reason  we  all  like 
to  think  so  well  of  others  is  that  we  are  all  afraid 
for  ourselves.  The  basis  of  optimism  is  sheer 
terror.  We  think  that  we  are  generous  because  we 
credit  our  neighbour  with  the  possession  of  those 
virtues  that  are  likely  to  be  a  benefit  to  us.  We 
praise  the  banker  that  we  may  overdraw  our 
account,  and  find  good  qualities  in  the  highway- 
man in  the  hope  that  he  may  spare  our  pockets. 
I  mean  everything  that  I  have  said.  I  have  the 
greatest  contempt  for  optimism.  As  for  a  spoiled 
life,  no  life  is  spoiled  but  one  whose  growth  is 
arrested.  If  you  want  to  mar  a  nature,  you  have 
merely  to  reform  it.  As  for  marriage,  of  course 
that  would  be  silly,  but  there  are  other  and  more 
interesting  bonds  between  men  and  women.  I 
will  certainly  encourage  them.  They  have  the 
charm  of  being  fashionable.  But  here  is  Dorian 
himself     He  will  tell  you  more  than  I  can." 

"  My  dear  Harry,  my  dear  Basil,  you  must  both 
congratulate  me ! "  said  the  lad,  throwing  off  his 
evening  cape  with  its  satin-lined  wings,  and  shaking 
no 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

each  of  his  friends  by  the  hand  in  turn.  "  I  have 
never  been  so  happy.  Of  course  it  is  sudden  :  all 
really  delightful  things  are.  And  yet  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  one  thing  I  have  been  looking  for  all 
my  life."  He  was  flushed  with  excitement  and 
pleasure,  and  looked  extraordinarily  handsome. 

"  I  hope  you  will  always  be  very  happy,  Dorian," 
said  Hallward,  "  but  I  don't  quite  forgive  you  for 
not  having  let  me  know  of  your  engagement.  You 
let  Harry  know." 

"  And  I  don't  forgive  you  for  being  late  for 
dinner,"  broke  in  Lord  Henry,  putting  his  hand  on 
the  lad's  shoulder,  and  smiling  as  he  spoke.  "  Come, 
let  us  sit  down  and  try  what  the  new  chef  here  is 
like,  and  then  you  will  tell  us  how  it  all  came 
about." 

"  There  is  really  not  much  to  tell,"  cried  Dorian, 
as  they  took  their  seats  at  the  small  round  table. 
"  What  happened  was  simply  this.  After  I  left 
you  yesterday  evening,  Harry,  I  dressed,  had  some 
dinner  at  that  little  Italian  restaurant  in  Rupert 
Street,  you  introduced  me  to,  and  went  down  at 
eight  o'clock  to  the  theatre.  Sibyl  was  playing 
Rosalind.  Of  course  the  scenery  was  dreadful,  and 
the  Orlando  absurd.  But  Sibyl !  You  should  have 
seen  her  !  When  she  came  on  in  her  boy's  clothes 
she  was  perfectly  wonderful.  She  wore  a  moss- 
coloured  velvet  jerkin  with  cinnamon  sleeves,  slim 
brown  cross-gartered  hose,  a  dainty  little  green  cap 
with  a  hawk's  feather  caught  in  a  jewel,  and  a 
III 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

hooded  cloak  lined  with  dull  red.  She  had  never 
seemed  to  me  more  exquisite.  She  had  all  the 
delicate  grace  of  that  Tanagra  figurine  that  you 
have  in  your  studio,  Basil.  Her  hair  clustered 
round  her  face  like  dark  leaves  round  a  pale  rose. 
As  for  her  acting — well,  you  shall  see  her  to-night. 
She  is  simply  a  born  artist.  I  sat  in  the  dingy 
box  absolutely  enthralled,  I  forgot  that  I  was  in 
London  and  in  the  nineteenth  century.  I  was 
away  with  my  love  in  a  forest  that  no  man  had 
ever  seen.  After  the  performance  was  over  I  went 
behind,  and  spoke  to  her.  As  we  were  sitting 
together,  suddenly  there  came  into  her  eyes  a  look 
that  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  My  lips  moved 
towards  hers.  We  kissed  each  other.  I  can't 
describe  to  you  what  I  felt  at  that  moment.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  all  my  life  had  been  narrowed 
to  one  perfect  point  of  rose-coloured  joy.  She 
trembled  all  over,  and  shook  like  a  white  narcissus. 
Then  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  and  kissed  my 
hands.  I  feel  that  I  should  not  tell  you  all  this, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  Of  course  our  engagement  is 
a  dead  secret.  She  has  not  even  told  her  own 
mother.  I  don't  know  what  my  guardians  will  say. 
Lord  Radley  is  sure  to  be  furious.  I  don't  care. 
I  shall  be  of  age  in  less  than  a  year,  and  then  I 
can  do  what  I  like.  I  have  been  right,  Basil, 
haven't  I,  to  take  my  love  out  of  poetry,  and 
to  find  my  wife  in  Shakespeare's  plays  ?  Lips 
that  Shakespeare  taught  to  speak  have  whispered 

112 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

their  secret  in  my  ear.  I  have  had  the  arms  of 
Rosalind  around  me,  and  kissed  Juliet  on  the 
mouth." 

"  Yes,  Dorian,  I  suppose  you  were  right,"  said 
Hallvvard,  slowly. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  to-day  ? "  asked  Lord 
Henry. 

Dorian  Gray  shook  his  head.  "  I  left  her  in  the 
forest  of  Arden,  I  shall  find  her  in  an  orchard  in 
Verona." 

Lord  Henry  sipped  his  champagne  in  a  medita- 
tive manner.  "  At  what  particular  point  did  you 
mention  the  word  marriage,  Dorian  .-*  And  what 
did  she  say  in  answer }  Perhaps  you  forgot  all 
about  it." 

*'  My  dear  Harry,  I  did  not  treat  it  as  a  business 
transaction,  and  I  did  not  make  any  formal  pro- 
posal. I  told  her  that  I  loved  her,  and  she  said 
she  was  not  worthy  to  be  my  wife.  Not  worthy  ! 
Why,  the  whole  world  is  nothing  to  me  compared 
with  her." 

"Women  are  wonderfully  practical,"  murmured 
Lord  Henry, — "  much  more  practical  than  we  are. 
In  situations  of  that  kind  we  often  forget  to  say 
anything  about  marriage,  and  they  always  remind 
us." 

Hallward  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm.     "  Don't, 
Harry.     You  have  annoyed   Dorian.     He   is  not 
like  other  men.      He  would    never  bring  misery 
upon  any  one.     His  nature  is  too  fine  for  that." 
113  I 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

Lord  Henry  looked  across  the  table.  "  Dorian 
is  never  annoyed  with  mc,"  he  answered.  "  I  asked 
the  question  for  the  best  reason  possible,  for  the 
only  reason,  indeed,  that  excuses  one  for  asking 
any  question — simple  curiosity.  I  have  a  theory 
that  it  is  always  the  women  who  propose  to  us, 
and  not  we  who  propose  to  the  women.  Except,  of 
course,  in  middle-class  life.  But  then  the  middle 
classes  are  not  modern." 

Dorian  Gray  laughed,  and  tossed  his  head.  "  You 
are  quite  incorrigible,  Harry  ;  but  I  don't  mind.  It 
is  impossible  to  be  angry  with  you.  When  you  see 
Sibyl  Vane  you  will  feel  that  the  man  who  could 
wrong  her  would  be  a  beast,  a  beast  without  a  heart. 
I  cannot  understand  how  any  one  can  wish  to 
shame  the  thing  he  loves.  I  love  Sibyl  Vane.  I 
want  to  place  her  on  a  pedestal  of  gold,  and  to  see 
the  world  worship  the  woman  who  is  mine.  What 
is  marriage?  An  irrevocable  vow.  You  mock 
at  it  for  that.  Ah  !  don't  mock.  It  is  an  irre- 
vocable vow  that  I  want  to  take.  Her  trust  makes 
me  faithful,  her  belief  makes  me  good.  When  I 
am  with  her,  I  regret  all  that  you  have  taught  mc. 
I  become  different  from  what  you  have  known 
me  to  be.  I  am  changed,  and  the  mere  touch 
of  Sibyl  Vane's  hand  makes  me  forget  you  and 
all  your  wrong,  fascinating,  poisonous,  delightful 
theories." 

**  And  those  are  .  .  . .?  "  asked  Lord  Henry,  help- 
ing himself  to  some  salad. 
114 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DOR! AM  GRA  V, 

"  Oh,  your  theories  about  life,  your  theories 
about  love,  your  theories  about  pleasure.  All  your 
theories,  in  fact,  Harry." 

"  Pleasure  is  the  only  thing  worth  having  a 
theory  about,"  he  answered,  in  his  slow,  melodious 
voice.  "  But  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  claim  my  theory 
as  my  own.  It  belongs  to  Nature,  not  to  me»' 
Pleasure  is  Nature's  test,  her  sign  of  approval. 
When  we  are  happy  we  are  always  good,  but  when 
we  are  good  we  are  not  always  happy." 

"  Ah  !  but  what  do  you  mean  by  good  ?  "  cried 
Basil  Hallward. 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Dorian,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  at  Lord  Henry  over  the  heavy  clusters 
of  purple-lipped  irises  that  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  good,  Harry  ?  " 

"  To  be  good  is  to  be  in  harmony  with  one's  self," 
he  replied,  touching  the  thin  stem  of  his  glass  with 
his  pale,  fine-pointed  fingers.  "  Discord  is  to  be 
forced  to  be  in  harmony  with  others.  One's  own 
life — that  is  the  important  thing.  As  for  the  lives 
of  one's  neighbours,  if  one  wishes  to  be  a  prig  or  a 
Puritan,  one  can  flaunt  one's  moral  views  about 
them,  but  they  are  not  one's  concern.  Besides, 
Individualism  has  really  the  higher  aim.  Modern 
morality  consists  in  accepting  the  standard  of  one's 
age.  I  consider  that  for  any  man  of  culture  to 
accept  the  standard  of  his  age  is  a  form  of  the 
grossest  immorality." 

"  But,  surely,  if  one  lives  merely  for  one's  self, 
115 


'i'HE  PICTURE  OF  Dorian  gra  y. 

Harry,  one  pays  a  terrible  price  for  doing  so  ?  " 
suggested  the  painter. 

"  Yes,  we  are  overcharged  for  everything  nowa- 
days. I  should  fancy  that  the  real  tragedy  of  the 
poor  is  that  they  can  afford  nothing  but  self-denial. 
Beautiful  sins,  like  beautiful  things,  are  the  privilege 
of  the  rich." 

"  One  has  to  pay  in  other  ways  but  money." 

"  What  sort  of  ways,  Basil  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  should  fancy  in  remorse,  in  suffering,  in 
.  .  .  well,  in  the  consciousness  of  degradation." 

Lord  Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  My  dear 
fellow,  mediaeval  art  is  charming,  but  mediaeval 
emotions  are  out  of  date.  One  can  use  them  in 
fiction,  of  course.  But  then  the  only  things  that 
one  can  use  in  fiction  are  the  things  that  one  has 
ceased  to  use  in  fact.  Believe  me,  no  civilized  man 
ever  regrets  a  pleasure,  and  no  uncivilized  man  ever 
knows  what  a  pleasure  is." 

"  I  know  what  pleasure  is,"  cried  Dorian  Gray. 
"  It  is  to  adore  some  one." 

"  That  is  certainly  better  than  being  adored,"  he 
answered,  toying  with  some  fruits.  "  Being  adored 
is  a  nuisance.  Women  treat  us  just  as  Humanity 
treats  its  gods.  They  worship  us,  and  are  always 
bothering  us  to  do  something  for  them." 

"  I  should  have  said  that  whatever  they  ask  for 
they   had   first  given   to   us,"  murmured   the  lad, 
gravely.    "  They  create  Love  in  our  natures.    They 
have  a  right  to  demand  it  back." 
ii6 


THE  PICTURE  QF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  That  is  quite  true,  Dorian,"  cried  Halhvard. 

"  Nothing  is  ever  quite  true,"  said  Lord  Henry, 

"  This  is,"  interrupted  Dorian.  "You  must  admit, 
Harry,  that  women  give  to  men  the  very  gold  of 
their  lives." 

"  Possibly,"  he  sighed,  "  but  they  invariably  want 
it  back  in  such  very  small  change.  That  is  the 
worry.  Women,  as  some  witty  Frenchman  once 
put  it,  inspire  us  with  the  desire  to  do  masterpieces, 
and  always  prevent  us  from  carrying  them  out." 

"  Harry,  you  are  dreadful !  I  don't  know  why  I 
like  you  so  much." 

"  You  will  always  like  me,  Dorian,"  he  replied, 
"  Will  you  have  some  coffee,  you  fellows  ? — Waiter, 
bring  coffee,  and  fine-champagne^  and  some  cigar- 
ettes. No :  don't  mind  the  cigarettes ;  I  have 
some.  Basil,  I  can't  allow  you  to  smoke  cigars. 
You  must  have  a  cigarette.  A  cigarette  is  the 
perfect  type  of  a  perfect  pleasure.  It  is  exquisite, 
and  it  leaves  one  unsatisfied.  What  more  can  one 
want  ?  Yes,  Dorian,  you  will  always  be  fond  of 
me.  I  represent  to  you  all  the  sins  you  have  never 
had  the  courage  to  commit." 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  Harry !  "  cried  the 
lad,  taking  a  light  from  a  fire- breathing  silver 
dragon  that  the  waiter  had  placed  on  the  table. 
"  Let  us  go  down  to  the  theatre.  When  Sibyl 
comes  on  the  stage  you  will  have  a  new  ideal  of 
life.  She  will  represent  something  to  you  that  you 
have  never  known." 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

"  I  have  known  everything,"  said  Lord  Henry, 
with  a  tired  look  in  his  eyes,  "  but  I  am  always 
ready  for  a  new  emotion.  I  am  afraid,  however, 
that,  for  me  at  any  rate,  there  is  no  such  thing. 
Still,  your  wonderful  girl  may  thrill  me.  I  love 
acting.  It  is  so  much  more  real  than  life.  Let  us 
go.  Dorian,  you  will  come  with  me.  I  am  so 
sorry,  Basil,  but  there  is  only  room  for  two  in  the 
brougham.     You  must  follow  us  in  a  hansom." 

They  got  up  and  put  on  their  coats,  sipping  their 
coffee  standing.  The  painter  was  silent  and  pre- 
occupied. There  was  a  gloom  over  him.  He  could 
not  bear  this  marriage,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him 
to  be  better  than  many  other  things  that  might 
have  happened.  After  a  few  minutes,  they  all 
passed  downstairs.  He  drove  off  by  himself,  as 
had  been  arranged,  and  watched  the  flashing  lights 
of  the  little  brougham  in  front  of  him.  A  strange 
sense  of  loss  came  over  him.  He  felt  that  Dorian 
Gray  would  never  again  be  to  him  all  that  he  had 
been  in  the  past.  Life  had  come  between  them. 
.  .  .  His  eyes  darkened,  and  the  crowded,  flaring 
streets  became  blurred  to  his  eyes.  When  the  cab 
drew  up  at  the  theatre,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
bad  grown  years  older. 


U8 


A'\ 


CHAPTER   VII. 

FOR  some  reason  or  other,  the  house  was 
crowded  that  night,  and  the  fat  Jew  manager 
who  met  them  at  the  door  was  beaming  from  ear 
to  ear  with  an  oily,  tremulous  smile.  He  escorted 
them  to  their  box  with  a  sort  of  pompous  humility, 
waving  his  fat  jewelled  hands,  and  talking  at  the 
top  of  his  voice.  Dorian  Gray  loathed  him  more 
than  ever.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  come  to  look  for 
Miranda  and  had  been  met  by  Caliban.  Lord 
Henry,  upon  the  other  hand,  rather  liked  him.  At 
least  he  declared  he  did,  and  insisted  on  shaking 
him  by  the  hand,  and  assuring  him  that  he  was 
proud  to  meet  a  man  who  had  discovered  a  real 
genius  and  gone  bankrupt  over  a  poet.  Hallward 
amused  himself  with  watching  the  faces  in  the  pit. 
The  heat  was  terribly  oppressive,  and  the  huge 
sunlight  flamed  like  a  monstrous  dahlia  with  petals 
of  yellow  fire.  The  youths  in  the  gallery  had  taken 
off  their  coats  and  waistcoats  and  hung  them  over 
the  side.  They  talked  to  each  other  across  the 
theatre,  and  shared  their  oranges  with  the  tawdry 
girls  who  sat  beside  them.  Some  women  were 
119 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

laughing  in  the  pit.  Their  voices  were  horribly 
shrill  and  discordant.  The  sound  of  the  popping 
of  corks  came  from  the  bar. 

"  What  a  place  to  find  one's  divinity  in  !  "  said 
Lord  Henry. 

"  Yes  !  "  answered  Dorian  Gray.  "  It  was  here  I 
found  her,  and  she  is  divine  beyond  all  living 
things.  When  she  acts  you  will  forget  everything. 
These  common,  rough  people,  with  their  coarse* 
faces  and  brutal  gestures,  become  quite  different 
when  she  is  on  the  stage.  They  sit  silently  and 
watch  her.  They  weep  and  laugh  as  she  wills  them 
to  do.  She  makes  them  as  responsive  as  a  violin. 
She  spiritualizes  them,  and  one  feels  that  they  are 
of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  one's  self." 

"  The  same  flesh  and  blood  as  one's  self !  Oh, 
I  hope  not ! "  exclaimed  Lord  Henry,  who  was 
scanning  the  occupants  of  the  gallery  through 
his  opera-glass. 

"  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  Dorian,"  said 
the  painter.  "  I  understand  what  you  mean,  and  I 
believe  in  this  girl.  Any  one  you  love  must  be 
marvellous,  and  any  girl  that  has  the  effect  you 
describe  must  be  fine  and  noble.  To  spiritualize 
one's  age — that  is  something  worth  doing.  If  this 
girl  can  give  a  soul  to  those  who  have  lived  without 
one,  if  she  can  create  the  sense  of  beauty  in  people 
whose  lives  have  been  sordid  and  ugly,  if  she  can 
strip  them  of  their  selfishness  and  lend  them  tears 
for  sorrows  that  are  not  their  own,  she  is  worthy  of 

120 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

all  your  adoration,  worthy  of  the  adoration  of  the 
world.  This  marriage  is  quite  right.  I  did  not 
think  so  at  first,  but  I  admit  it  now.  The  gods 
made  Sibyl  Vane  for  you.  Without  her  you  would 
have  been  incomplete." 

"  Thanks,  Basil,"  answered  Dorian  Gray,  pressing 
his  hand.  "  I  knew  that  you  would  understand 
me.  Harry  is  so  cynical,  he  terrifies  me.  But 
here  is  the  orchestra.  It  is  quite  dreadful,  but  it 
only  lasts  for  about  five  minutes.  Then  the  curtain 
rises,  and  you  will  see  the  girl  to  whom  I  am  going 
to  give  all  my  life,  to  whom  I  have  given  everything 
that  is  good  in  me." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards,  amidst  an 
extraordinary  turmoil  of  applause,  Sibyl  Vane 
stepped  on  to  the  stage.  Yes,  she  was  certainly 
lovely  to  look  at — one  of  the  loveliest  creatures, 
Lord  Henry  thought,  that  he  had  ever  seen. 
There  was  something  of  the  fawn  in  her  shy  grace 
and  startled  eyes.  A  faint  blush,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  rose  in  a  mirror  of  silver,  came  to  her  cheeks 
as  she  glanced  at  the  crowded,  enthusiastic  house. 
She  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  her  lips  seemed 
to  tremble.  Basil  Hallward  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
began  to  applaud.  Motionless,  and  as  one  in  a 
dream,  sat  Dorian  Gray,  gazing  at  her.  Lord 
Henry  peered  through  his  glasses,  murmuring, 
"  Charming  !  charming  !  " 

The  scene  was  the  hall  of  Capulet's  house,  and 
Romeo   in    his  pilgrim's    dress  had  entered  with 

J2l 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Mercutio  and  his  other  friends.  The  band,  such 
as  it  was,  struck  up  a  few  bars  of  music,  and  the 
dance  began.  Through  the  crowd  of  ungainly, 
shabbily-dressed  actors,  Sibyl  Vane  moved  like  a 
creature  from  a  finer  world.  Her  body  swayed, 
while  she  danced,  as  a  plant  sways  in  the  water. 
The  curves  of  her  throat  were  the  curves  of  a 
white  lily.  Her  hands  seemed  to  be  made  of  cool 
ivory. 

Yet  she  was  curiously  listless.  She  showed  no 
sign  of  joy  when  her  eyes  rested  on  Romeo.  The 
few  words  she  had  to  speak — 

Good  pilgrim^  you  do  wrong  yotir  hand  too  much^ 
Which  manner ly  de^iotion  shows  in  this ;   ^ 

For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrims'  hands  do  touchy 
And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers'  kiss — 

with  the  brief  dialogue  that  follows,  were  spoken  in 
a  thoroughly  artificial  manner.  The  voice  was  ex- 
quisite, but  from  the  point  of  view  of  tone  it  was 
absolutely  false.  It  was  wrong  in  colour.  It  took 
away  all  the  life  from  the  verse.  It  made  the 
passion  unreal. 

Dorian  Gray  grew  pale  as  he  watched  her.  He 
was  puzzled  and  anxious.  Neither  of  his  friends 
dared  to  say  anything  to  him.  She  seemed  to 
them  to  be  absolutely  incompetent.  They  were 
horribly  disappointed. 

Yet  they  felt  that  the  true  test  of  any  Juliet  is 
the  balcony  scene  of  the  second  act.     They  waited 

122 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

for  that.  If  she  failed  there,  there  was  nothing  in 
her. 

She  looked  charming  as  she  came  out  in  the 
moonlight.  That  could  not  be  denied.  But  the 
staginess  of  her  acting  was  unbearable,  and  grew 
worse  as  she  went  on.  Her  gestures  became 
absurdly  artificial.  She  over-emphasized  everything 
that  she  had  to  say.     The  beautiful  passage — 

T/iot^  knowest  the  mask  of  night  is  o?t  my  face  ^ 

Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaiiit  my  cheek 

For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-?tight — 

was  declaimed  with  the  painful  precision  of  a 
school-girl  who  has  been  taught  to  recite  by  some 
second-rate  professor  of  elocution.  When  she 
leaned  over  the  balcony  and  came  to  those 
wonderful  lines — 

Although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-7iight  : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised^  too  sudden; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  oiie  can  say,  "  //  lightens T     Sweet,  good-7tight  / 
This  bud  of  love  by  summer's  ripening  breath 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  whe7t  next  we  meet — 

she  spoke  the  words  as  though  they  conveyed  no 
meaning  to  her.  It  was  not  nervousness.  Indeed, 
so  far  from  being  nervous,  she  was  absolutely  self- 
contained.  It  was  simply  bad  art.  She  was  a 
complete  failure. 

U3 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Even  the  common,  uneducated  audience  of  the 
pit  and  gallery  lost  their  interest  in  the  play.  They 
got  restless,  and  began  to  talk  loudly  and  to  whistle. 
The  Jew  manager,  who  was  standing  at  the  back 
of  the  dress-circle,  stamped  and  swore  with  rage. 
The  only  person  unmoved  was  the  girl  herself 

When  the  second  act  was  over  there  came  a 
storm  of  hisses,  and  Lord  Henry  got  up  from  his 
chair  and  put  on  his  coat.  "  She  is  quite  beautiful, 
Dorian,"   he   said,   "  but   she   can't   act.      Let   us 

go." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  the  play  through,"  answered 
the  lad,  in  a  hard,  bitter  voice.  "  I  am  awfully 
sorry  that  I  have  made  you  waste  an  evening, 
Harry.     I  apologize  to  you  both." 

"  My  dear  Dorian,  I  should  think  Miss  Vane  was 
ill,"  interrupted  Hallward.  "We  will  come  some 
other  night." 

"  I  wish  she  were  ill,"  he  rejoined.  "  But  she 
seems  to  me  to  be  simply  callous  and  cold.  She 
has  entirely  altered.  Last  night  she  was  a  great 
artist.  This  evening  she  is  merely  a  commonplace, 
mediocre  actress." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that  about  any  one  you  love, 
Dorian.  Love  is  a  more  wonderful  thing  than 
Art." 

"  They   are   both   simply    forms   of    imitation," 

remarked    Lord    Henry.      "  But    do    let    us    go. 

Dorian,  you  must  not  stay  here  any  longer.     It  is 

not   good    for   one's   morals   to    see    bad    acting. 

124 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

Besides,  I  don't  suppose  you  will  want  your  wife 
to  act.  So  what  does  it  matter  if  she  plays  Juliet 
like  a  wooden  doll  ?  She  is  very  lovely,  and  if  she 
knows  as  little  about  life  as  she  does  about  acting, 
she  will  be  a  delightful  experience.  There  are 
only  two  kinds  of  people  who  are  really  fascinating 
— people  who  know  absolutely  everything,  and 
people  who  know  absolutely  nothing.  Good 
heavens,  my  dear  boy,  don't  look  so  tragic  !  The 
secret  of  remaining  young  is  never  to  have  an 
emotion  that  is  unbecoming.  Come  to  the  club 
with  Basil  and  myself.  We  will  smoke  cigarettes 
and  drink  to  the  beauty  of  Sibyl  Vane.  She  is 
beautiful.     What  more  can  you  want  ?  " 

"  Go  away,  Harry,"  cried  the  lad.  "  I  want  to 
be  alone.  Basil,  you  must  go.  Ah  !  can't  you 
see  that  my  heart  is  breaking  1 "  The  hot  tears 
came  to  his  eyes.  His  lips  trembled,  and,  rushing 
to  the  back  of  the  box,  he  leaned  up  against  the 
wall,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Let  us  go,  Basil,"  said  Lord  Henry,  with  a 
strange  tenderness  in  his  voice  ;  and  the  two  young 
men  passed  out  together. 

A  few  moments  afterwards  the  footlights  flared 
up,  and  the  curtain  rose  on  the  third  act.  Dorian 
Gray  went  back  to  his  seat.  He  looked  pale,  and 
proud,  and  indifferent.  The  play  dragged  on,  and 
seemed  interminable.  Half  of  the  audience  went 
out,  tramping  in  heavy  boots,  and  laughing.  The 
whole  thing  was  a  fiasco.     The  last  act  was  played 

135 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

to  almost  empty  benches.     The  curtain  went  down 
on  a  titter,  and  some  groans. 

As  soon  as  it  was  over,  Dorian  Gray  rushed 
behind  the  scenes  into  the  greenroom.  The  girl 
was  standing  there  alone,  with  a  look  of  triumph 
on  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  lit  with  an  exquisite 
fire.  There  was  a  radiance  about  her.  Her  parted 
lips  were  smiling  over  some  secret  of  their  own. 

When  he  entered,  she  looked  at  him,  and  an 
expression  of  infinite  joy  came  over  her.  "  How 
badly  I  acted  to-night,  Dorian  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Horribly  !  "  he  answered,  gazing  at  her  in 
amazement — "  horribly  !  It  was  dreadful.  Are 
you  ill  ?  You  have  no  idea  what  it  was.  You 
have  no  idea  what  I  suffered." 

The  girl  smiled.  "  Dorian,"  she  answered,  linger- 
ing over  his  name  with  long-drawn  music  in  her 
voice,  as  though  it  were  sweeter  than  honey  to  the 
red  petals  of  her  mouth — "  Dorian,  you  should  have 
understood.    But  you  understand  now,  don't  you?" 

"  Understand  what  ?  "  he  asked,  angrily. 

"  Why  I  was  so  bad  to-night.  Why  I  shall 
always  be  bad.    Why  I  shall  never  act  well  again." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  are  ill,  I 
suppose.  When  you  are  ill  you  shouldn't  act.  You 
make  yourself  ridiculous.  My  friends  were  bored. 
I  was  bored." 

She  seemed  not  to  listen  to  him.  She  was 
transfigured  with  joy.  An  ecstasy  of  happiness 
dominated  her. 

126 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Dorian,  Dorian,"  she  cried,  "  before  I  knew  you, 
acting  was  the  one  reality  of  my  life.  It  was  only 
in  the  theatre  that  I  lived.  I  thought  that  it  was 
all  true.  I  was  Rosalind  one  night,  and  Portia  the 
other.  The  joy  of  Beatrice  was  my  joy,  and  the 
sorrows  of  Cordelia  were  mine  also.  I  believed  in 
everything.  The  common  people  who  acted  with 
me  seemed  to  me  to  be  godlike.  The  painted 
scenes  were  my  world.  I  knew  nothing  but 
shadows,  and  I  thought  them  real.  You  came — 
oh,  my  beautiful  love ! — and  you  freed  my  soul 
from  prison.  You  taught  me  what  reality  really  is. 
To-night,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  saw  through 
the  hollowness,  the  sham,  the  silliness  of  the  empty 
pageant  in  which  I  had  always  played.  To-night, 
for  the  first  time,  I  became  conscious  that  the 
Romeo  was  hideous,  and  old,  and  painted,  that  the 
moonlight  in  the  orchard  was  false,  that  the  scenery 
was  vulgar,  and  that  the  words  I  had  to  speak  were 
unreal,  were  not  my  words,  were  not  what  I  wanted 
to  say.  You  had  brought  me  something  higher, 
something  of  which  all  art  is  but  a  reflection.  You 
had  made  me  understand  what  love  really  is.  My 
love  !  my  love  !  Prince  Charming  !  Prince  of  life  ! 
I  have  grown  sick  of  shadows.  You  are  more  to 
me  than  all  art  can  ever  be.  What  have  I  to  do 
with  the  puppets  of  a  play }  When  I  came  on  to* 
night,  I  could  not  understand  how  it  was  that 
everything  had  gone  from  me.  I  thought  that  I  was 
going  to  be  wonderful.  I  found  that  I  could  do 
127 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

nothing.  Suddenly  it  dawned  on  my  soul  what  it 
all  meant.  The  knowledge  was  exquisite  to  me.  I 
heard  them  hissing,  and  I  smiled.  What  could  they 
know  of  love  such  as  ours?  Take  me  away,  Dorian — 
take  me  away  with  you,  where  we  can  be  quite  alone. 
I  hate  the  stage.  I  might  mimic  a  passion  that  I 
do  not  feel,  but  I  cannot  mimic  one  that  burns  me 
like  fire.  Oh,  Dorian,  Dorian,  you  understand  now 
what  it  signifies  ?  Even  if  I  could  do  it,  it  would 
be  profanation  for  me  to  play  at  being  in  love. 
You  have  made  me  see  that." 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa,  and  turned 
away  his  face.  "  You  have  killed  my  love,"  he 
muttered. 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  and  laughed.  He 
made  no  answer.  She  came  across  to  him,  and 
with  her  little  fingers  stroked  his  hair.  She  knelt 
down  and  pressed  his  hands  to  her  lips.  He 
drew  them  away,  and  a  shudder  ran  through 
him. 

Then  he  leaped  up,  and  went  to  the  door. 
"  Yes,"  he  cried,  "  you  have  killed  my  love.  You 
used  to  stir  my  imagination.  Now  you  don't  even 
stir  my  curiosity.  You  simply  produce  no  effect 
I  loved  you  because  you  were  marvellous,  because 
you  had  genius  and  intellect,  because  y.ou  realized 
the  dreams  of  great  poets  and  gave  shape  and 
substance  to  the  shadows  of  art.  You  have  thrown 
it  all  away.  You  are  shallow  and  stupid.  My 
God !  how  mad  I  was  to  love  you  !  What  a  fool  I 
128 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

have  been  !  You  are  nothing  to  me  now.  I  will 
never  see  you  again.  I  will  never  think  of  you.  I 
will  never  mention  your  name.  You  don't  know 
what  you  were  to  me,  once.  Why,  once  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it !  I  wish  I  had  never 
laid  eyes  upon  you  !  You  have  spoiled  the 
romance  of  my  life.  How  little  you  can  know 
of  love,  if  you  say  it  mars  your  art !  Without 
your  art  you  are  nothing.  I  would  have  made 
you  famous,  splendid,  magnificent.  The  world 
would  have  worshipped  you,  and  you  would  have 
borne  my  name.  What  are  you  now  ?  A  third- 
rate  actress  with  a  pretty  face." 

The  girl  grew  white,  and  trembled.  She  clenched 
her  hands  together,  and  her  voice  seemed  to  catch 
in  her  throat.  "  You  are  not  serious,  Dorian  ?  "  she 
murmured.     "  You  are  acting." 

"  Acting !  I  leave  that  to  you.  You  do  it  so 
well,"  he  answered,  bitterly. 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  and,  with  a  piteous 
expression  of  pain  in  her  face,  came  across  the 
room  to  him.  She  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes.  He  thrust  her  back.  "  Don't 
touch  me  !  "  he  cried. 

A  low  moan  broke  from  her,  and  she  flung  herself 
at  his  feet,  and  lay  there  like  a  trampled  flower. 
"  Dorian,  Dorian,  don't  leave  me  !  "  she  whispered. 
"  I  am  so  sorry  I  didn't  act  well.  I  was  thinking 
of  you  all  the  time.  But  I  will  try— indeed,  I  will 
try.  It  came  so  suddenly  across  me,  my  love  for 
129  K 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

you.  I  think  I  should  never  have  known  it  if  you 
had  not  kissed  me — if  we  had  not  kissed  each 
other.  Kiss  me  again,  my  love.  Don't  go  away 
from  me.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  Oh !  don't  go  away 
from  me.  My  brother  ...  No  ;  never  mind.  He 
didn't  mean  it.  He  was  in  jest.  .  .  .  But  you,  oh ! 
can't  you  forgive  me  for  to-night  ?  I  will  work  so 
hard,  and  try  to  improve.  Don't  be  cruel  to  me 
because  I  love  you  better  than  anything  in  the 
world.  After  all,  it  is  only  once  that  I  have  not 
pleased  you.  But  you  arc  quite  right,  Dorian.  I 
should  have  shown  myself  more  of  an  artist.  It 
was  foolish  of  me  ;  and  yet  I  couldn't  help  it.  Oh, 
don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me."  A  fit  of  passionate 
sobbing  choked  her.  She  crouched  on  the  floor 
like  a  wounded  thing,  and  Dorian  Gray,  with  his 
beautiful  eyes,  looked  down  at  her,  and  his  chiselled 
lips  curled  in  exquisite  disdain.  There  is  always 
something  ridiculous  about  the  emotions  of  people 
whom  one  has  ceased  to  love.  Sibyl  Vane  seemed 
to  him  to  be  absurdly  melodramatic.  Her  tears 
and  sobs  annoyed  him. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said  at  last,  in  his  calm,  clear 
voice.  "  I  don't  wish  to  be  unkind,  but  I  can't  see 
you  again.     You  have  disappointed  me." 

She  wept  silently,  and  made  no  answer,  but  crept 
nearer.  Her  little  hands  stretched  blindly  out,  and 
appeared  to  be  seeking  for  him.  He  turned  on  his 
heel,  and  left  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  he  was 
out  of  the  theatre. 

130 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Where  he  went  to  he  hardly  knew.  He  remem- 
bered wandering  through  dimly-lit  streets,  past 
gaunt  black-shadowed  archways  and  evil-looking 
houses.  Women  with  hoarse  voices  and  harsh 
laughter  had  called  after  him.  Drunkards  had 
reeled  by  cursing,  and  chattering  to  themselves 
like  monstrous  apes.  He  had  seen  grotesque 
children  huddled  upon  doorsteps,  and  heard  shrieks 
and  oaths  from  gloomy  courts. 

As  the  dawn  was  just  breaking  he  found  himself 
close  to  Covent  Garden.  The  darkness  lifted,  and, 
flushed  with  faint  fires,  the  sky  hollowed  itself  into 
a  perfect  pearl.  Huge  carts  filled  with  nodding 
lilies  rumbled  slowly  down  the  polished  empty 
street.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers,  and  their  beauty  seemed  to  bring  him  an 
anodyne  for  his  pain.  He  followed  into  the 
market,  and  watched  the  men  unloading  their 
waggons.  A  white-smocked  carter  offered  him 
some  cherries.  He  thanked  him,  wondered  why  he 
refused  to  accept  any  money  for  them,  and  began 
to  eat  them  listlessly.  They  had  been  plucked  at 
midnight,  and  the  coldness  of  the  moon  had  entered 
into  them.  A  long  line  of  boys  carrying  crates  of 
striped  tulips,  and  of  yellow  and  red  roses,  defiled 
in  front  of  him,  threading  their  way  through  the 
huge  jade-green  piles  of  vegetables.  Under  the 
portico,  with  its  grey  sun-bleached  pillars,  loitered 
a  troop  of  draggled  bareheaded  girls,  waiting  for 
the  auction  to  be  over.  Others  crowded  round  the 
131 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

swinging  doors  of  the  coffee-house  in  the  Piazza. 
The  heavy  cart-horses  slipped  and  stamped  upon 
the  rough  stones,  shaking  their  bells  and  trappings. 
Some  of  the  drivers  were  lying  asleep  on  a  pile  of 
sacks.  Iris-necked,  and  pink-footed,  the  pigeons 
ran  about  picking  up  seeds. 

After  a  little  while,  he  hailed  a  hansom,  and 
drove  home.  For  a  few  moments  he  loitered  upon 
the  doorstep,  looking  round  at  the  silent  Square 
with  its  blank  close-shuttered  windows,  and  its 
staring  blinds.  The  sky  was  pure  opal  now, 
and  the  roofs  of  the  houses  glistened  like  silver 
against  it.  From  some  chimney  opposite  a  thin 
wreath  of  smoke  was  rising.  It  curled,  a  violet 
riband,  through  the  nacre-coloured  air. 

In  the  huge  gilt  Venetian  lantern,  spoil  of  some 
Doge's  barge,  that  hung  from  the  ceiling  of  the 
great  oak-panelled  hall  of  entrance,  lights  were 
still  burning  from  three  flickering  jets  :  thin  blue 
petals  of  flame  they  seemed,  rimmed  with  white 
fire.  He  turned  them  out,  and,  having  thrown  his 
hat  and  cape  on  the  table,  passed  through  the 
library  towards  the  door  of  his  bedroom,  a  large 
octagonal  chamber  on  the  ground  floor  that,  in  his 
new-born  feeling  for  luxury,  he  had  just  had 
decorated  for  himself,  and  hung  with  some  curious 
Renaissance  tapestries  that  had  been  discovered 
stored  in  a  disused  attic  at  Selby  Royal.  As  he 
was  turning  the  handle  of  the  door,  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  portrait  Basil  Hallward  had  painted  of 
132 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

him.  He  started  back  as  if  in  surprise.  Then  he 
went  on  into  his  own  room,  looking  somewhat 
puzzled.  After  he  had  taken  the  buttonhole  out  of 
his  coat,  he  seemed  to  hesitate.  Finally  he  came 
back,  went  over  to  the  picture,  and  examined  it. 
In  the  dim  arrested  light  that  struggled  through 
the  cream-coloured  silk  blinds,  the  face  appeared  to 
him  to  be  a  little  changed.  The  expression  looked 
different.  One  would  have  said  that  there  was  a 
touch  of  cruelty  in  the  mouth.  It  was  certainly 
strange. 

He  turned  round,  and,  walking  to  the  window, 
drew  up  the  blind.  The  bright  dawn  flooded  the 
room,  and  swept  the  fantastic  shadows  into  dusky 
corners,  where  they  lay  shuddering.  But  the 
strange  expression  that  he  had  noticed  in  the  face 
of  the  portrait  seemed  to  linger  there,  to  be  more 
intensified  even.  The  quivering,  ardent  sunlight 
showed  him  the  lines  of  cruelty  round  the  mouth 
as  clearly  as  if  he  had  been  looking  into  a  mirror 
after  he  had  done  some  dreadful  thing. 

He  winced,  and,  taking  up  from  the  table  an 
oval  glass  framed  in  ivory  Cupids,  one  of  Lord 
Henry's  many  presents  to  him,  glanced  hurriedly 
into  its  polished  depths.  No  line  like  that  warped 
his  red  lips.     What  did  it  mean  ? 

He   rubbed    his   eyes,  and    came    close   to   the 

picture,  and  examined  it  again.     There  were  no 

signs  of  any  change  when  he  looked  into  the  actual 

painting,  and  yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  whole 

133 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

expression  had  altered.     It  was  not  a  mere  fancy 
of  his  own.     The  thing  was  horribly  apparent. 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  began  to 
think.  Suddenly  there  flashed  across  his  mind 
what  he  had  said  in  Basil  Hallward's  studio  the 
day  the  picture  had  been  finished.  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered it  perfectly.  He  had  uttered  a  mad  wish 
that  he  himself  might  remain  young,  and  the 
portrait  grow  old  ;  that  his  own  beauty  might  be 
untarnished,  and  the  face  on  the  canvas  bear  the 
burden  of  his  passions  and  his  sins  ;  that  the 
painted  image  might  be  seared  with  the  lines  of 
suffering  and  thought,  and  that  he  might  keep  all 
the  delicate  bloom  and  loveliness  of  his  then  just 
conscious  boyhood.  Surely  his  wish  had  not  been 
fulfilled  ?  Such  things  were  impossible.  It  seemed 
monstrous  even  to  think  of  them.  And,  yet,  there 
was  the  picture  before  him,  with  the  touch  of 
cruelty  in  the  mouth. 

Cruelty  !  Had  he  been  cruel  ?  It  was  the  girl's 
fault,  not  his.  He  had  dreamed  of  her  as  a  great 
artist,  had  given  his  love  to  her  because  he  had 
thought  her  great.  Then  she  had  disappointed 
him.  She  had  been  shallow  and  unworthy.  And, 
yet,  a  feeling  of  infinite  regret  came  over  him,  as  he 
thought  of  her  lying  at  his  feet  sobbing  like  a  little 
child.  He  remembered  with  what  callousness  he 
had  watched  her.  Why  had  he  been  made  like 
that?  Why  had  such  a  soul  been  given  to  him? 
But  he  had  suffered  also.  During  the  three  terrible 
134 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

hours  that  the  play  had  lasted,  he  had  lived 
centuries  of  pain,  aeon  upon  aeon  of  torture.  His 
life  was  well  worth  hers.  She  had  marred  him  for 
a  moment,  if  he  had  wounded  her  for  an  age. 
Besides,  women  were  better  suited  to  bear  sorrow 
than  men.  They  lived  on  their  emotions.  They 
only  thought  of  their  emotions.  When  they  took 
lovers,  it  was  merely  to  have  some  one  with  whom 
they  could  have  scenes.  Lord  Henry  had  told  him 
that,  and  Lord  Henry  knew  what  women  were. 
Why  should  he  trouble  about  Sibyl  Vane  ?  She 
was  nothing  to  him  now. 

But  the  picture  ?  What  was  he  to  say  of  that  ? 
It  held  the  secret  of  his  life,  and  told  his  story.  It 
had  taught  him  to  love  his  own  beauty.  Would  it 
teach  him  to  loathe  his  own  soul  ?  Would  he  ever 
look  at  it  again  } 

No  ;  it  was  merely  an  illusion  wrought  on  the 
troubled  senses.  The  horrible  night  that  he  had 
passed  had  left  phantoms  behind  it.  Suddenly 
there  had  fallen  upon  his  brain  that  tiny  scarlet 
speck  that  makes  men  mad.  The  picture  had  not 
changed.     It  was  folly  to  think  so. 

Yet  it  was  watching  him,  with  its  beautiful 
marred  face  and  its  cruel  smile.  Its  bright  hair 
gleamed  in  the  early  sunlight.  Its  blue  eyes  met 
his  own.  A  sense  of  infinite  pity,  not  for  himself, 
but  for  the  painted  image  of  himself,  came  over 
him.  It  had  altered  already,  and  would  alter 
jnore.  Its  gold  would  wither  into  grey.  Its  red 
^35 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

and  white  roses  would  die.  For  every  sin  that  he 
committed,  a  stain  would  fleck  and  wreck  its  fair- 
ness. But  he  would  not  sin.  The  picture,  changed 
or  unchanged,  would  be  to  him  the  visible  emblem 
of  conscience.  He  would  resist  temptation.  He 
would  not  see  Lord  Henry  any  more — would  not, 
at  any  rate,  listen  to  those  subtle  poisonous 
theories  that  in  Basil  Hallward's  garden  had  first 
stirred  within  him  the  passion  for  impossible  things. 
He  would  go  back  to  Sibyl  Vane,  make  her 
amends,  marry  her,  try  to  love  her  again.  Yes, 
it  was  his  duty  to  do  so.  She  must  have  suffered 
more  than  he  had.  Poor  child  !  He  had  been 
selfish  and  cruel  to  her.  The  fascination  that  she 
had  exercised  over  him  would  return.  They  would 
be  happy  together.  His  life  with  her  would  be 
beautiful  and  pure. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  drew  a  large 
screen  right  in  front  of  the  portrait,  shuddering  as 
he  glanced  at  it.  "  How  horrible  !  "  he  murmured 
to  himself,  and  he  walked  across  to  the  window 
and  opened  it.  When  he  stepped  out  on  to  the 
grass,  he  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  fresh  morning 
air  seemed  to  drive  away  all  his  sombre  passions. 
He  thought  only  of  Sibyl.  A  faint  echo  of  his 
love  came  back  to  him.  He  repeated  her  name 
over  and  over  again.  The  birds  that  were  singing 
in  the  dew-drenched  garden  seemed  to  be  telling 
the  flowers  about  her. 


.36 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IT  was  long  past  noon  when  he  awoke.  His 
valet  had  crept  several  times  on  tiptoe  into  the 
room  to  see  if  he  was  stirring,  and  had  wondered 
what  made  his  young  master  sleep  so  late.  Finally 
his  bell  sounded,  and  Victor  came  in  softly  with 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  pile  of  letters,  on  a  small  tray 
of  old  Sevres  china,  and  drew  back  the  olive-satin 
curtains,  with  their  shimmering  blue  lining,  that 
hung  in  front  of  the  three  tall  windows. 

"  Monsieur  has  well  slept  this  morning,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it,  Victor  ?  "  asked  Dorian  Gray, 
drowsily. 

"  One  hour  and  a  quarter,  Monsieur." 

How  late  it  was  !  He  sat  up,  and,  having  sipped 
some  tea,  turned  over  his  letters.  One  of  them 
was  from  Lord  Henry,  and  had  been  brought  by 
hand  that  morning.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
and  then  put  it  aside.  The  others  he  opened 
listlessly.  They  contained  the  usual  collection  of 
cards,  invitations  to  dinner,  tickets  for  private  views, 
programmes  of  charity  concerts,  and  the  like,  that 
137 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

are  showered  on  fashionable  young  men  every 
morning  during  the  season.  There  was  a  rather 
heavy  bill,  for  a  chased  silver  Louis-Quinze  toilet- 
set,  that  he  had  not  yet  had  the  courage  to  send 
on  to  his  guardians,  who  were  extremely  old- 
fashioned  people  and  did  not  realize  that  we  live 
in  an  age  when  unnecessary  things  are  our  only 
necessities  ;  and  there  were  several  very  courteously 
worded  communications  from  Jermyn  Street  money- 
lenders offering  to  advance  any  sum  of  money  at 
a  moment's  notice  and  at  the  most  reasonable  rates 
of  interest. 

After  about  ten  minutes  he  got  up,  and,  throwing 
on  an  elaborate  dressing-gown  of  silk-embroidered 
cashmere  wool,  passed  into  the  onyx-paved  bath- 
room. The  cool  water  refreshed  him  after  his  long 
sleep.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  that  he 
had  gone  through.  A  dim  sense  of  having  taken 
part  in  some  strange  tragedy  came  to  him  once  or 
twice,  but  there  was  the  unreality  of  a  dream  about 
it. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  went  into 
the  library  and  sat  down  to  a  light  French  break- 
fast, that  had  been  laid  out  for  him  on  a  small 
round  table  close  to  the  open  window.  It  was 
an  exquisite  day.  The  warm  air  seemed  laden 
with  spices.  A  bee  flew  in,  and  buzzed  round 
the  blue  -  dragon  bowl  that,  filled  with  sulphur- 
yellow  roses,  stood  before  him.  He  felt  perfectly 
happy. 

138 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on  the  screen  that  he  had 
placed  in  front  of  the  portrait,  and  he  started. 

"  Too  cold  for  Monsieur  ? "  asked  his  valet, 
putting  an  omelette  on  the  table.  "  I  shut  the 
window  ?  " 

Dorian  shook  his  head.  "  I  am  not  cold,"  he 
murmured. 

Was  it  all  true  ?  Had  the  portrait  really 
changed  ?  Or  had  it  been  simply  his  own 
imagination  that  had  made  him  see  a  look  of  evil 
where  there  had  been  a  look  of  joy  ?  Surely  a 
painted  canvas  could  not  alter  ?  The  thing  was 
absurd.  It  would  serve  as  a  tale  to  tell  Basil  some 
day.     It  would  make  him  smile. 

And,  yet,  how  vivid  was  his  recollection  of  the 
whole  thing !  First  in  the  dim  twilight,  and  then 
in  the  bright  dawn,  he  had  seen  the  touch  of  cruelty 
round  the  warped  lips.  He  almost  dreaded  his 
valet  leaving  the  room.  He  knew  that  when  he 
was  alone  he  would  have  to  examine  the  portrait. 
He  was  afraid  of  certainty.  *  When  the  coffee  and 
cigarettes  had  been  brought  and  the  man  turned 
to  go,  he  felt  a  wild  desire  to  tell  him  to  remain. 
As  the  door  was  closing  behind  him  he  called  him 
back.  The  man  stood  waiting  for  his  orders. 
Dorian  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "  I  am  not 
at  home  to  any  one,  Victor,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 
The  man  bowed  and  retired. 

Then  he  rose  from  the  table,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
flung   himself    down   on   a   luxuriously-cushioned 
139 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

couch  that  stood  facing  the  screen.  The  screen 
was  an  old  one,  of  gilt  Spanish  leather,  stamped 
and  wrought  with  a  rather  florid  Louis-Quatorzc 
pattern.  He  scanned  it  curiously,  wondering  if 
ever  before  it  had  concealed  the  secret  of  a  man's 
life. 

Should  he  move  it  aside,  after  all  ?  Why  not 
let  it  stay  there  ?  What  was  the  use  of  knowing  } 
If  the  thing  was  true,  it  was  terrible.  If  it  was  not 
true,  why  trouble  about  it  ?  But  what  if,  by  some 
fate  or  deadlier  chance,  eyes  other  than  his  spied 
behind,  and  saw  the  horrible  change  ?  What 
should  he  do  if  Basil  Hallward  came  and  asked  to 
look  at  his  own  picture  }  Basil  would  be  sure  to 
do  that.  No  ;  the  thing  had  to  be  examined,  and 
at  once.  Anything  would  be  better  than  this 
dreadful  state  of  doubt. 

He  got  up,  and  locked  both  doors.  At  least  he 
would  be  alone  when  he  looked  upon  the  mask  of 
his  shame.  Then  he  drew  the  screen  aside,  and 
saw  himself  face  to  face.  It  was  perfectly  true. 
The  portrait  had  altered. 

As  he  often  remembered  afterwards,  and  always 
with  no  small  wonder,  he  found  himself  at  first 
gazing  at  the  portrait  with  a  feeling  of  almost 
scientific  interest.  That  such  a  change  should 
have  taken  place  was  incredible  to  him.  And  yet 
it  was  a  fact.  Was  there  some  subtle  affinity 
between  the  chemical  atoms,  that  shaped  them- 
selves into  form  and  colour  on  the  canvas,  and  the 
140 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

soul  that  was  within  him  ?  Could  it  be  that  what 
that  soul  thought,  they  realized? — that  what  it 
dreamed,  they  made  true?  Or  was  there  some 
other,  more  terrible  reason  ?  He  shuddered,  and 
felt  afraid,  and,  going  back  to  the  couch,  lay  there, 
gazing  at  the  picture  in  sickened  horror. 

One  thing,  however,  he  felt  that  it  had  done  for 
him.  It  had  made  him  conscious  how  unjust,  how 
cruel,  he  had  been  to  Sibyl  Vane.  It  was  not  too 
late  to  make  reparation  for  that.  She  could  still 
be  his  wife.  His  unreal  and  selfish  love  would 
yield  to  some  higher  influence,  would  be  trans- 
formed into  some  nobler  passion,  and  the  portrait 
that  Basil  Hallward  had  painted  of  him  would  be 
a  guide  to  him  through  life,  would  be  to  him  what 
holiness  is  to  some,  and  conscience  to  others,  and 
the  fear  of  God  to  us  all.  There  were  opiates  for 
remorse,  drugs  that  could  lull  the  moral  sense  to 
sleep.  But  here  was  a  visible  symbol  of  the  degra- 
dation of  sin.  Here  was  an  ever-present  sign  of 
the  ruin  men  brought  upon  their  souls. 

Three  o'clock  struck,  and  four,  and  the  half-hour 
rang  its  double  chime,  but  Dorian  Gray  did  not 
stir.  He  was  trying  to  gather  up  the  scarlet 
threads  of  life,  and  to  weave  them  into  a  pattern  ; 
to  find  his  way  through  the  sanguine  labyrinth  of 
passion  through  which  he  was  wandering.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  or  what  to  think.  Finally, 
he  went  over  to  the  table  and  wrote  a  passionate 
letter  to  the  girl  he  had  loved,  imploring  her 
141 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

forgiveness,  and  accusing  himself  of  madness.  He 
covered  page  after  page  with  wild  words  of  sorrow, 
and  wilder  words  of  pain.  There  is  a  luxury  in 
self-reproach.  When  we  blame  ourselves  we  feel 
that  no  one  else  has  a  right  to  blame  us.  It  is  the 
confession,  not  the  priest,  that  gives  us  absolution. 
When  Dorian  had  finished  the  letter,  he  felt  that 
he  had  been  forgiven. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  knock  to  the  door,  and 
he  heard  Lord  Henry's  voice  outside.  "  My  dear 
boy,  I  must  see  you.  Let  me  in  at  once.  I  can't 
bear  your  shutting  yourself  up  like  this." 

He  made  no  answer  at  first,  but  remained  quite 
still.  The  knocking  still  continued,  and  grew 
louder.  Yes,  it  was  better  to  let  Lord  Henry  in, 
and  to  explain  to  him  the  new  life  he  was  going 
to  lead,  to  quarrel  with  him  if  it  became  necessary 
to  quarrel,  to  part  if  parting  was  inevitable.  He 
jumped  up,  drew  the  screen  hastily  across  the 
picture,  and  unlocked  the  door. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  it  all,  Dorian,"  said  Lord 
Henry,  as  he  entered.  "  But  you  must  not  think 
too  much  about  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  about  Sibyl  Vane  ? "  asked 
the  lad. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  sinking 
into  a  chair,  and  slowly  pulling  off  his  yellow 
gloves.  "  It  is  dreadful,  from  one  point  of  view, 
but  it  was  not  your  fault.  Tell  me,  did  you  go 
behind  and  see  her,  after  the  play  was  over  ?  " 
142 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  felt  sure  you  had.  Did  you  make  a  scene 
with  her  ? " 

•*  I  was  brutal,  Harry — perfectly  brutal.  But  it 
is  all  right  now.  I  am  not  sorry  for  anything 
that  has  happened.  It  has  taught  me  to  know 
myself  better." 

"  Ah,  Dorian,  I  am  so  glad  you  take  it  in  that 
way  !  I  was  afraid  I  would  find  you  plunged  in 
remorse,  and  tearing  that  nice  curly  hair  of  yours." 

"  I  have  got  through  all  that,"  said  Dorian, 
shaking  his  head,  and  smiling.  "  I  am  perfectly 
happy  now.  I  know  what  conscience  is,  to  begin 
with.  It  is  not  what  you  told  me  it  was.  It  is  the 
divinest  thing  in  us.  Don't  sneer  at  it,  Harry,  any 
more — at  least  not  before  me.  I  want  to  be  good. 
I  can't  bear  the  idea  of  my  soul  being  hideous." 

"  A  very  charming  artistic  basis  for  ethics, 
Dorian  !  I  congratulate  you  on  it.  But  how  are 
you  going  to  begin  ?  " 

"  By  marrying  Sibyl  Vane." 

"  Marrying  Sibyl  Vane ! "  cried  Lord  Henry, 
standing  up,  and  looking  at  him  in  perplexed 
amazement.     "  But,  my  dear  Dorian " 

"  Yes,  Harry,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say. 
Something  dreadful  about  marriage.  Don't  say  it. 
Don't  ever  say  things  of  that  kind  to  me  again. 
Two  days  ago  I  asked  Sibyl  to  marry  me.  I  am 
not  going  to  break  my  word  to  her.  She  is  to  be 
my  wife." 

143 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  Your  wife  !  Dorian  !  .  .  .  Didn't  you  get  my 
letter  ?  I  wrote  to  you  this  morning,  and  sent  the 
note  down,  by  my  own  man." 

"  Your  letter  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  I  have 
not  read  it  yet,  Harry.  I  was  afraid  there  might 
be  something  in  it  that  I  wouldn't  like.  You  cut 
life  to  pieces  with  your  epigrams." 

"  You  know  nothing  then  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  }  " 

Lord  Henry  walked  across  the  room,  and,  sitting 
down  by  Dorian  Gray,  took  both  his  hands  in  his 
own,  and  held  them  tightly.  "  Dorian,"  he  said, 
"  my  letter — don't  be  frightened — was  to  tell  you 
that  Sibyl  Vane  is  dead." 

A  cry  of  pain  broke  from  the  lad's  lips,  and  he 
leaped  to  his  feet,  tearing  his  hands  away  from 
Lord  Henry's  grasp.  "  Dead  !  Sibyl  dead  !  It 
is  not  true  !  It  is  a  horrible  lie  !  How  dare  you 
say  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  quite  true,  Dorian,"  said  Lord  Henry, 
gravely.  "  It  is  in  all  the  morning  papers.  I  wrote 
down  to  you  to  ask  you  not  to  see  any  one  till  I 
came.  There  will  have  to  be  an  inquest,  of  course, 
and  you  must  not  be  mixed  up  in  it.  Things  like 
that  make  a  man  fashionable  in  Paris.  But  in 
London  people  are  so  prejudiced.  Here,  one  should 
never  make  one's  dedut  with  a  scandal.  One  should 
reserve  that  to  give  an  interest  to  one's  old  age. 
I  suppose  they  don't  know  your  name  at  the 
theatre  ?  If  they  don't,  it  is  all  right.  Did  any 
144 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

one  see  you. going  round  to  her  room  ?  That  is  an 
important  point." 

Dorian  did  not  answer  for  a  few  moments.  He 
was  dazed  with  horror.  Finally  he  stammered,  in 
a  stifled  voice,  "  Harry,  did  you  say  an  inquest? 

What   did  you   mean    by  that  ?     Did  Sibyl ? 

Oh,  Harry,  I  can't  bear  it !  But  be  quick.  Tell 
me  everything  at  once." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  not  an  accident,  Dorian, 
though  it  must  be  put  in  that  way  to  the  public.  It 
seems  that  as  she  was  leaving  the  theatre  with  her 
mother,  about  half-past  twelve  or  so,  she  said  she 
had  forgotten  something  upstairs.  They  waited 
some  time  for  her,  but  she  did  not  come  down 
again.  They  ultimately  found  her  lying  dead  on 
the  floor  of  her  dressing-room.  She  had  swallowed 
something  by  mistake,  some  dreadful  thing  they 
use  at  theatres.  I  don't  know  what  it  was,  but  it 
had  either  prussic  acid  or  white  lead  in  it.  I 
should  fancy  it  was  prussic  acid,  as  she  seems  to 
have  died  instantaneously." 

"  Harry,  Harry,  it  is  terrible !"  cried  the  lad. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  very  tragic,  of  course,  but  you  must 
not  get  yourself  mixed  up  in  it.  I  see  by  T/ie 
Standard  that  she  was  seventeen.  I  should  have 
thought  she  was  almost  younger  than  that.  She 
looked  such  a  child,  and  seemed  to  know  so  little 
about  acting.  Dorian,  you  mustn't  let  this  thing 
get  on  your  nerves.  You  must  come  and  dine 
with  me,  and   afterwards  we  will  look  in  at  the 

145  L 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Opera.  It  is  a  Patti  night,  and  everybody  will  be 
there.  You  can  come  to  my  sister's  box.  She 
has  got  some  smart  women  with  her." 

"  So  I  have  murdered  Sibyl  Vane,"  said  Dorian 
Gray,  half  to  himself — "  murdered  her  as  surely  as 
if  I  had  cut  her  little  throat  with  a  knife.  Yet  the 
roses  are  not  less  lovely  for  all  that.  The  birds 
sing  just  as  happily  in  my  garden.  And  to-night 
I  am  to  dine  with  you,  and  then  go  on  to  the 
Opera,  and  sup  somewhere,  I  suppose,  afterwards. 
How  extraordinarily  dramatic  life  is  !  If  I  had 
read  all  this  in  a  book,  Harry,  I  think  I  would 
have  wept  over  it.  Somehow,  now  that  it  has 
happened  actually,  and  to  me,  it  seems  far  too 
wonderful  for  tears.  Here  is  the  first  passionate 
love-letter  I  have  ever  written  in  my  life.  Strange, 
that  my  first  passionate  love-letter  should  have 
been  addressed  to  a  dead  girl.  Can  they  feel,  I 
wonder,  those  white  silent  people  we  call  the  dead  ? 
Sibyl !  Can  she  feel,  or  know,  or  listen  ?  Oh, 
Harry,  how  I  loved  her  once  !  It  seems  years  ago 
to  me  now.  She  was  everything  to  me.  Then 
came  that  dreadful  night — was  it  really  only  last 
night  i* — when  she  played  so  badly,  and  my  heart 
almost  broke.  She  explained  it  all  to  me.  It 
was  terribly  pathetic.  But  I  was  not  moved  a  bit. 
I  thought  her  shallow.  Suddenly  something  hap- 
pened that  made  me  afraid.  I  can't  tell  you  what 
it  was,  but  it  was  terrible.  I  said  I  would  go  back 
to  her.  I  felt  I  had  done  wrong.  And  now  she  is 
146 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

dead.  My  God  !  my  God  !  Hariy,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
You  don't  know  the  danger  I  am  in,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  keep  me  straight.  She  would  have 
done  that  for  me.  She  had  no  right  to  kill  herself. 
It  was  selfish  of  her." 

"  My  dear  Dorian,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  taking 
a  cigarette  from  his  case,  and  producing  a  gold- 
latten  matchbox,  "  the  only  way  a  woman  can 
ever  reform  a  man  is  by  boring  him  so  completely 
that  he  loses  all  possible  interest  in  life.  If  you 
had  married  this  girl  you  would  have  been 
wretched.  Of  course  you  would  have  treated  her 
kindly.  One  can  always  be  kind  to  people  about 
whom  one  cares  nothing.  But  she  would  have 
soon  found  out  that  you  were  absolutely  indifferent 
to  her.  And  when  a  woman  finds  that  out  about 
her  husband,  she  either  becomes  dreadfully  dowdy, 
or  wears  very  smart  bonnets  that  some  other 
woman's  husband  has  to  pay  for.  I  say  nothing 
about  the  social  mistake,  which  would  have  been 
abject,  which,  of  course,  I  would  not  have  allowed, 
but  I  assure  you  that  in  any  case  the  whole  thing 
would  have  been  an  absolute  failure." 

"  I  suppose  it  would,"  muttered  the  lad,  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  and  looking  horribly  pale. 
"  But  I  thought  it  was  my  duty.  It  is  not  my  fault 
that  this  terrible  tragedy  has  prevented  my  doing 
what  was  right.  I  remember  your  saying  once 
that  there  is  a  fatality  about  good  resolutions— that 
they  are  always  made  too  late.  Mine  certainly  were." 
147 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"Good  resolutions  are  useless  attempts  to  in- 
terfere with  scientific  laws.  Their  origin  is  pure 
vanity.  Their  result  is  absolutely  ;///.  They  give 
us,  now  and  then,  some  of  those  luxurious  sterile 
emotions  that  have  a  certain  charm  for  the  weak. 
That  is  all  that  can  be  said  for  them.  They  are 
simply  cheques  that  men  draw  on  a  bank  where 
they  have  no  account." 

"  Harry,"  cried  Dorian  Gray,  coming  over  and 
sitting  down  beside  him,  "  why  is  it  that  I  cannot 
feel  this  tragedy  as  much  as  I  want  to  ?  I  don't 
think  I  am  heartless.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  done  too  many  foolish  things  during 
the  last  fortnight  to  be  entitled  to  give  yourself 
that  name,  Dorian,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  with 
his  sweet,  melancholy  smile. 

The  lad  frowned.  "  I  don't  like  that  explana- 
tion, Harry,"  he  rejoined,  "  but  I  am  glad  you 
don't  think  I  am  heartless.  I  am  nothing  of  the 
kind.  I  know  I  am  not.  And  yet  I  must  admit 
that  this  thing  that  has  happened  does  not  affect 
me  as  it  should.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  simply  like 
a  wonderful  ending  to  a  wonderful  play.  It  has 
all  the  terrible  beauty  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  a 
tragedy  in  which  I  took  a  great  part,  but  by  which 
I  have  not  been  wounded." 

"  It  is  an  interesting  question,"  said  Lord  Henry, 
who  found  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  playing  on  the 
lad's     unconscious    egotism — "an    extremely    in- 
teresting question.     I  fancy  that  the  true  explana- 
148 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

tion  is  this.  It  often  happens  that  the  real 
tragedies  of  life  occur  in  such  an  inartistic  manner 
that  they  hurt  us  by  their  crude  violence,  their 
absolute  incoherence,  their  absurd  want  of  mean- 
ing, their  entire  lack  of  style.  They  affect  us  just 
as  vulgarity  affects  us.  They  give  us  an  impression 
of  sheer  brute  force,  and  we  revolt  against  that. 
Sometimes,  however,  a  tragedy  that  possesses 
artistic  elements  of  beauty  crosses  our  lives.  If 
these  elements  of  beauty  are  real,  the  whole  thing 
simply  appeals  to  our  sense  of  dramatic  effect. 
Suddenly  we  find  that  we  are  no  longer  the 
actors,  but  the  spectators  of  the  play.  Or  rather 
we  are  both.  We  watch  ourselves,  and  the  mere 
wonder  of  the  spectacle  enthralls  us.  In  the 
present  case,  what  is  it  that  has  really  happened  ? 
Some  one  has  killed  herself  for  love  of  you.  I 
wish  that  I  had  ever  had  such  an  experience.  It 
would  have  made  me  in  love  with  love  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  The  people  who  have  adored  me 
— there  have  not  been  very  many,  but  there  have 
been  some — have  always  insisted  on  living  on, 
long  after  1  had  ceased  to  care  for  them,  or  they 
to  care  for  me.  They  have  become  stout  and 
tedious,  and  when  I  meet  them  they  go  in  at  once 
for  reminiscences.  That  awful  memory  of  woman ! 
What  a  fearful  thing  it  is  !  And  what  an  utter 
intellectual  stagnation  it  reveals !  One  should 
absorb  the  colour  of  life,  but  one  should  never 
remember  its  details.  Details  are  always  vulgar. 
149 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  I  must  sow  poppies  in  my  garden,"  sighed 
Dorian. 

"  There  is  no  necessity,"  rejoined  his  companion. 
"  Life  has  always  poppies  in  her  hands.  Of 
course,  now  and  then  things  Hnger.  I  once  wore 
nothing  but  violets  all  through  one  season,  as  a 
form  of  artistic  mourning  for  a  romance  that 
would  not  die.  Ultimately,  however,  it  did  die. 
I  forget  what  killed  it.  I  think  it  was  her  pro- 
posing to  sacrifice  the  whole  world  for  me.  That 
is  always  a  dreadful  moment.  It  fills  one  with 
the  terror  of  eternity.  Well — would  you  believe 
it? — a  week  ago,  at  Lady  Hampshire's,  I  found 
myself  seated  at  dinner  next  the  lady  in  question, 
and  she  insisted  on  going  over  the  whole  thing 
again,  and  digging  up  the  past,  and  raking  up  the 
future.  I  had  buried  my  romance  in  a  bed  of 
asphodel.  She  dragged  it  out  again,  and  assured 
me  that  I  had  spoiled  her  life.  I  am  bound  to 
state  that  she  ate  an  enormous  dinner,  so  I  did 
not  feel  any  anxiety.  But  what  a  lack  of  taste 
she  showed  !  The  one  charm  of  the  past  is  that 
it  is  the  past.  But  women  never  know  when  the 
curtain  has  fallen.  They  always  want  a  sixth  act, 
and  as  soon  as  the  interest  of  the  play  is  entirely 
over  they  propose  to  continue  it.  If  they  were 
allowed  their  own  way,  every  comedy  would  have 
a  tragic  ending,  and  every  tragedy  would  culminate 
in  a  farce.  They  are  charmingly  artificial,  but 
they  have  no  sense  of  art.  You  are  more  fortunate 
150 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

than  I  am.  I  assure  you,  Dorian,  that  not  one  of 
the  women  I  have  known  would  have  done  for  me 
what  Sibyl  Vane  did  for  you.  Ordinary  women 
always  console  themselves.  Some  of  them  do  it 
by  going  in  for  sentimental  colours.  Never  trust 
a  woman  who  wears  mauve,  whatever  her  age  may 
be,  or  a  woman  over  thirty-five  who  is  fond  of  pink 
ribbons.  It  always  means  that  they  have  a  history. 
Others  find  a  great  consolation  in  suddenly  dis- 
covering the  good  qualities  of  their  husbands. 
They  flaunt  their  conjugal  felicity  in  one's  face, 
as  if  it  were  the  most  fascinating  of  sins.  Religion 
consoles  some.  Its  mysteries  have  all  the  charm 
of  a  flirtation,  a  woman  once  told  me ;  and  I  can 
quite  understand  it.  Besides,  nothing  makes  one  . 
so  vain  as  being  told  that  one  is  a  sinner. 
Conscience  makes  egotists  of  us  all.  Yes ;  there 
is  really  no  end  to  the  consolations  that  women 
find  in  modern  life.  Indeed,  I  have  not  mentioned 
the  most  important  one." 

"What   is    that,    Harry?"    said    the    lad,    list- 
lessly. 

"  Oh,  the  obvious  consolation.  Taking  some 
one  else's  admirer  when  one  loses  one's  own.  In 
good  society  that  always  whitewashes  a  woman. 
But  really,  Dorian,  how  different  Sibyl  Vane  must 
have  been  from  all  the  women  one  meets  !  There 
is  something  to  me  quite  beautiful  about  her  death. 
I  am  glad  I  am  living  in  a  century  when  such 
wonders  happen.  They  make  one  believe  in  the 
151 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

reality  of  the  things  we  all  play  with,  such  as 
romance,  passion,  and  love." 

"  I  was  terribly  cruel  to  her.     You  forget  that." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  women  appreciate  cruelty, 
downright  cruelty,  more  than  anything  else.  They 
have  wonderfully  primitive  instincts.  We  have 
emancipated  them,  but  they  remain  slaves  looking 
for  their  masters,  all  the  same.  They  love  being 
dominated.  I  am  sure  you  were  splendid.  I  have 
never  seen  you  really  and  absolutely  angry,  but  I 
can  fancy  how  delightful  you  looked.  And,  after 
all,  you  said  something  to  me  the  day  before 
yesterday  that  seemed  to  me  at  the  time  to  be 
merely  fanciful,  but  that  I  see  now  was  absolutely 
true,  and  it  holds  the  key  to  everything." 

"  What  was  that,  Harry?  " 

"  You  said  to  me  that  Sibyl  Vane  represented  to 
you  all  the  heroines  of  romance — that  she  was 
Desdemona  one  night,  and  Ophelia  the  other ; 
that  if  she  died  as  Juliet,  she  came  to  life  as 
Imogen." 

"  She  will  never  come  to  life  again  now," 
muttered  the  lad,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  No,  she  will  never  come  to  life.  She  has 
played  her  last  part.  But  you  must  think  of  that 
lonely  death  in  the  tawdry  dressing-room  simply 
as  a  strange  lurid  fragment  from  some  Jacobean 
tragedy,  as  a  wonderful  scene  from  Webster,  or 
Ford,  or  Cyril  Tourneur.  The  girl  never  really 
lived,  and  so  she  has  never  really  died.  To  you 
152 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

at  least  she  was  always  a  dream,  a  phantom  that 
flitted  through  Shakespeare's  plays  and  left  them 
lovelier  for  its  presence,  a  reed  through  which 
Shakespeare's  music  sounded  richer  and  more  full 
of  joy.  The  moment  she  touched  actual  life,  she 
marred  it,  and  it  marred  her,  and  so  she  passed 
away.  Mourn  for  Ophelia,  if  you  like.  Put  ashes 
on  your  head  because  Cordelia  was  strangled. 
Cry  out  against  Heaven  because  the  daughter  of 
Brabantio  died.  But  don't  waste  your  tears  over 
Sibyl  Vane.     She  was  less  real  than  they  are." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  evening  darkened  in 
the  room.  Noiselessly,  and  with  silver  feet,  the 
shadows  crept  in  from  the  garden.  The  colours 
faded  wearily  out  of  things. 

After  some  time  Dorian  Gray  looked  up.  "  You 
have  explained  me  to  myself,  Harry,"  he  murmured, 
with  something  of  a  sigh  of  relief  "  I  felt  all  that 
you  have  said,  but  somehow  I  was  afraid  of  it,  and 
I  could  not  express  it  to  myself  How  well  you 
know  me  !  But  we  will  not  talk  again  of  what 
has  happened.  It  has  been  a  marvellous  ex- 
perience. That  is  all.  I  wonder  if  life  has  still 
in  store  for  me  anything  as  marvellous." 

"  Life  has  everything  in  store  for  you,  Dorian. 
There  is  nothing  that  you,  with  your  extraordinary 
good  looks,  will  not  be  able  to  do." 

"  But  suppose,  Harry,  I  became  haggard,  and 
old,  and  wrinkled  ?     What  then  ?  " 

"  Ah,  then,"   said   Lord   Henry,  rising  to   go — 
153 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  then,  my  dear  Dorian,  you  would  have  to  fight 
for  your  victories.  As  it  is,  they  are  brought  to 
you.  No,  you  must  keep  your  good  looks.  We 
live  in  an  age  that  reads  too  much  to  be  wise,  and 
that  thinks  too  much  to  be  beautiful.  We  carmot 
spare  you.  And  now  you  had  better  dress,  and 
drive  down  to  the  club.  We  are  rather  late,  as  it 
is." 

"  I  think  I  shall  join  you  at  the  Opera,  Harry. 
I  feel  too  tired  to  eat  anything.  What  is  the 
number  of  your  sister's  box  ?  " 

"Twenty-seven,  I  believe.  It  is  on  the  grand 
tier.  You  will  see  her  name  on  the  door.  But 
I  am  sorry  you  won't  come  and  dine." 

"  I  don't  feel  up  to  it,"  said  Dorian,  listlessly. 
"  But  I  am  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  all  that  you 
have  said  to  me.  You  are  certainly  my  best 
friend.  No  one  has  ever  understood  me  as  you 
have." 

"  We  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  our  friendship, 
Dorian,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  shaking  him  by 
the  hand.  "  Good-bye.  I  shall  see  you  before 
nine-thirty,  I  hope.     Remember,  Patti  is  singing." 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  Dorian  Gray 
touched  the  bell,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Victor 
appeared  with  the  lamps  and  drew  the  blinds 
down.  He  waited  impatiently  for  him  to  go. 
The  man  seemed  to  take  an  interminable  time 
over  everything. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left,  he  rushed  to  the  screen, 
154 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

and  drew  it  back.  No ;  there  was  no  further 
change  in  the  picture.  It  had  received  the  news 
of  Sibyl  Vane's  death  before  he  had  known  of  it 
himself.  It  was  conscious  of  the  events  of  life  as 
they  occurred.  The  vicious  cruelty  that  marred 
the  fine  lines  of  the  mouth  had,  no  doubt,  appeared 
at  the  very  moment  that  the  girl  had  drunk  the 
poison,  whatever  it  was.  Or  was  it  indifferent  to 
results  }  Did  it  merely  take  cognizance  of  what 
passed  within  the  soul  ?  He  wondered,  and  hoped 
that  some  day  he  would  see  the  change  taking 
place  before  his  very  eyes,  shuddering  as  he  hoped  it. 
Poor  Sibyl !  what  a  romance  it  had  all  been  ! 
She  had  often  mimicked  death  on  the  stage. 
Then  Death  himself  had  touched  her,  and  taken 
her  with  him.  How  had  she  played  that  dreadful 
last  scene  ?  Had  she  cursed  him,  as  she  died  ? 
No  ;  she  had  died  for  love  of  him,  and  love  would 
always  be  a  sacrament  to  him  now.  She  had 
atoned  for  everything,  by  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made  of  her  life.  He  would  not  think  any  more 
of  what  she  had  made  him  go  through,  on  that 
horrible  night  at  the  theatre.  When  he  thought  of 
her,  it  would  be  as  a  wonderful  tragic  figure  sent 
on  to  the  world's  stage  to  show  the  supreme  reality 
of  Love.  A  wonderful  tragic  figure?  Tears  came 
to  his  eyes  as  he  remembered  her  childlike  look 
and  winsome  fanciful  ways  and  shy  tremulous 
grace.  He  brushed  them  away  hastily,  and  looked 
again  at  the  picture. 

155 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

He  felt  that  the  time  had  really  come  for  making 
his  choice.  Or  had  his  choice  already  been  made  ? 
Yes,  life  had  decided  that  for  him — life,  and  his 
own  infinite  curiosity  about  life.  Eternal  youth, 
infinite  passion,  pleasures  subtle  and  secret,  wild 
joys  and  wilder  sins — he  was  to  have  all  these 
things.  The  portrait  was  to  bear  the  burden  of  his 
shame  :  that  was  all. 

A  feeling  of  pain  crept  over  him  as  he  thought 
of  the  desecration  that  was  in  store  for  the  fair  face 
on  the  canvas.  Once,  in  boyish  mockery  of  Nar- 
cissus, he  had  kissed,  or  feigned  to  kiss,  those 
painted  lips  that  now  smiled  so  cruelly  at  him. 
Morning  after  morning  he  had  sat  before  the  por- 
trait wondering  at  its  beauty,  almost  enamoured 
of  it,  as  it  seemed  to  him  at  times.  Was  it  to 
alter  now  with  every  mood  to  which  he  yielded  ? 
Was  it  to  become  a  monstrous  and  loathsome 
thing,  to  be  hidden  away  in  a  locked  room,  to 
be  shut  out  from  the  sunlight  that  had  so  often 
touched  to  brighter  gold  the  waving  wonder  of  its 
hair  ?     The  pity  of  it !  the  pity  of  it  ! 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  praying  that  the 
horrible  sympathy  that  existed  between  him  and 
the  picture  might  cease.  It  had  changed  in 
answer  to  a  prayer  ;  perhaps  in  answer  to  a  prayer 
it  might  remain  unchanged.  And,  yet,  who,  that 
knew  anything  about  Life,  would  surrender  the 
chance  of  remaining  always  young,  however  fan- 
tastic that  chance  might  be,  or  with  what  fateful 
156 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

consequences  it  might  be  fraught  ?  Besides,  was  it 
really  under  his  control?  Had  it  indeed  been 
prayer  that  had  produced  the  substitution  ?  Might 
there  not  be  some  curious  scientific  reason  for  it 
all  ?  If  thought  could  exercise  its  influence  upon 
a  living  organism,  might  not  thought  exercise  an 
influence  upon  dead  and  inorganic  things  ?  Nay, 
without  thought  or  conscious  desire,  might  not 
things  external  to  ourselves  vibrate  in  unison  with 
our  moods  and  passions,  atom  calling  to  atom  in 
secret  love  or  strange  affinity  ?  But  the  reason  was 
of  no  importance.  He  would  never  again  tempt 
by  a  prayer  any  terrible  power.  If  the  picture 
was  to  alter,  it  was  to  alter.  That  was  all.  Why 
inquire  too  closely  into  it } 

For  there  would  be  a  real  pleasure  in  watching 
it.  He  would  be  able  to  follow  his  mind  into  its 
secret  places.  This  portrait  would  be  to  him  the 
most  magical  of  mirrors.  As  it  had  revealed  to 
him  his  own  body,  so  it  would  reveal  to  him  his 
own  soul.  And  when  winter  came  upon  it,  he 
would  still  be  standing  where  spring  trembles  on 
the  verge  of  summer.  When  the  blood  crept  from 
its  face,  and  left  behind  a  pallid  mask  of  chalk 
with  leaden  eyes,  he  would  keep  the  glamour  of 
boyhood.  Not  one  blossom  of  his  loveliness  would 
ever  fade.  Not  one  pulse  of  his  life  would  ever 
weaken.  Like  the  gods  of  the  Greeks,  he  would 
be  strong,  and  fleet,  and  joyous.  What  did  it 
matter  what  happened  to  the  coloured  image  on 
157 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

the  canvas  ?     He  would  be  safe.     That  was  every- 
thing. 

He  drew  the  screen  back  into  its  former  place  in 
front  of  the  picture,  smiling  as  he  did  so,  and 
passed  into  his  bedroom,  where  his  valet  was 
already  waiting  for  him.  An  hour  later  he  was  at 
the  Opera,  and  Lord  Henry  was  leaning  over  his 
chair. 


158 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AS  he  was  sitting  at  breakfast  next  morning^ 
Basil  Hallward  was  shown  into  the  room. 
"  I  am  so  glad  I  have  found  you,  Dorian,"  he 
said,  gravely.  "  I  called  last  night,  and  they  told 
me  you  were  at  the  Opera.  Of  course  I  knew  that 
was  impossible.  But  I  wish  you  had  left  word 
where  you  had  really  gone  to.  I  passed  a  dread- 
ful evening,  half  afraid  that  one  tragedy  might  be 
followed  by  another.  I  think  you  might  have 
telegraphed  for  me  when  you  heard  of  it  first.  I 
read  of  it  quite  by  chance  in  a  late  edition  of  The 
Globe,  that  I  picked  up  at  the  club.  I  came  here 
at  once,  and  was  miserable  at  not  finding  you.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  heart-broken  I  am  about  the 
whole  thing.  I  know  what  you  must  suffer.  But 
where  were  you }  Did  you  go  down  and  see  the 
girl's  mother  ?  For  a  moment  I  thought  of  follow- 
ing you  there.  They  gave  the  address  in  the 
paper.  Somewhere  in  the  Euston  Road,  isn't  it  ? 
But  I  was  afraid  of  intruding  upon  a  sorrow  that  I 
could  not  lighten.  Poor  woman  !  What  a  state 
159 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

she  must  be  in  !     And  her  only  child,  too  !     What 
did  she  say  about  it  all  ? " 

"  My  dear  Basil,  how  do  I  know  ? "  murmured 
Dorian  Gray,  sipping  some  pale-yellow  wine  from 
a  delicate  gold-beaded  bubble  of  Venetian  glass, 
and  looking  dreadfully  bored.  "  I  was  at  the 
Opera.  You  should  have  come  on  there.  I  met 
Lady  Gwendolen,  Harry's  sister,  for  the  first  time. 
We  were  in  her  box.  She  is  perfectly  charming  ; 
and  Patti  sang  divinely.  Don't  talk  about  horrid 
subjects.  If  one  doesn't  talk  about  a  thing,  it  has 
never  happened.  It  is  simply  expression,  as  Harry 
says,  that  gives  reality  to  things.  I  may  mention 
that  she  was  not  the  woman's  only  child.  There  is 
a  son,  a  charming  fellow,  I  believe.  But  he  is  not 
on  the  stage.  He  is  a  sailor,  or  something.  And 
now,  tell  me  about  yourself  and  what  you  are 
painting." 

"You  went  to  the  Opera?"  said  Hallward, 
speaking  very  slowly,  and  with  a  strained  touch  of 
pain  in  his  voice.  "  You  went  to  the  Opera  while 
Sibyl  Vane  was  lying  dead  in  some  sordid  lodging.? 
You  can  talk  to  me  of  other  women  being  charm- 
ing, and  of  Patti  singing  divinely,  before  the  girl 
you  loved  has  even  the  quiet  of  a  grave  to  sleep 
in  ?  Why,  man,  there  are  horrors  in  store  for  that 
little  white  body  of  hers  ! " 

"  Stop,  Basil  !  I  won't  hear   it !  "  cried  Dorian, 
leaping  to  his  feet.     "  You  must  not  tell  me  about 
things.   What  is  done  is  done.    What  is  past  is  past." 
i6o 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

*'  You  call  yesterday  the  past  ? " 

"  What  has  the  actual  lapse  of  time  got  to  do 
with  it  ?  It  is  only  shallow  people  who  require  * 
years  to  get  rid  of  an  emotion.  A  man  who  is 
master  of  himself  can  end  a  sorrow  as  easily  as  he 
can  invent  a  pleasure.  I  don't  want  to  be  at  the 
mercy  of  my  emotions.  I  want  to  use  them,  to 
enjoy  them,  and  to  dominate  them." 

"  Dorian,  this  is  horrible !  Something  has 
changed  you  completely.  You  look  exactly  the 
same  wonderful  boy  who,  day  after  day,  used  to 
come  down  to  my  studio  to  sit  for  his  picture.  But 
you  were  simple,  natural,  and  affectionate  then. 
You  were  the  most  unspoiled  creature  in  the  whole 
world.  Now,  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over 
you.  You  talk  as  if  you  had  no  heart,  no  pity  in 
you.     It  is  all  Harry's  influence.     I  see  that." 

The  lad  flushed  up,  and,  going  to  the  window, 
looked  out  for  a  few  moments  on  the  green,  flicker- 
ing, sun-lashed  garden.  "  I  owe  a  great  deal  to 
Harry,  Basil,"  he  said,  at  last — "more  than  I  owe 
to  you.     You  only  taught  me  to  be  vain." 

"  Well,  I  am  punished  for  that,  Dorian — or  shall 
be  some  day." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Basil,"  he  ex- 
claimed, turning  round.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
want.     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  the  Dorian  Gray  I  used  to  paint,"  said 
the  artist,  sadly. 

"  Basil,"  said  the  lad,  going  over  to  him,  and 

l6l  M 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

putting  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  you  have  come 
too  late.  Yesterday  when  I  heard  that  Sibyl  Vane 
had  killed  herself " 

"  Killed  herself !  Good  heavens !  is  there  no 
doubt  about  that  ?  "  cried  Hallward,  looking  up  at 
him  with  an  expression  of  horror. 

"  My  dear  Basil  !  Surely  you  don't  think  it  was 
a  vulgar  accident  ?     Of  course  she  killed  herself" 

The  elder  man  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
"  How  fearful,"  he  muttered,  and  a  shuddbr  ran 
through  him. 

"  No,"  said  Dorian  Gray,  "  there  is  nothing  fear- 
ful about  it.  It  is  one  of  the  great  romantic 
tragedies  of  the  age.  As  a  rule,  people  who  act 
lead  the  most  commonplace  lives.  They  are  good 
husbands,  or  faithful  wives,  or  something  tedious. 
You  know  what  I  mean — middle-class  virtue,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing.  How  different  Sibyl  was  ! 
She  lived  her  finest  tragedy.  She  was  always  a 
heroine.  The  last  night  she  played — the  night  you 
saw  her — she  acted  badly  because  she  had  known 
the  reality  of  love.  When  she  knew  its  unreality, 
she  died,  as  Juliet  might  have  died.  She  passed 
again  into  the  sphere  of  art.  There  is  something 
of  the  martyr  about  her.  Her  death  has  all  the 
pathetic  uselessness  of  martyrdom,  all  its  wasted 
beauty.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  you  must  not  think 
I  have  not  suffered.  If  you  had  come  in  yesterday 
at  a  particular  moment — about  half-past  five,  per- 
haps, or  a  quarter  to  six — you  would  have  found 
162 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

me  in  tears.  Even  Harry,  who  was  here,  who 
brought  me  the  news,  in  fact,  had  no  idea  what  I. 
was  going  through.  I  suffered  immensely.  Then 
it  passed  away.  I  cannot  repeat  an  emotion.  No 
one  can,  except  sentimentalists.  And  you  are 
awfully  unjust,  Basil.  You  come  down  here  to 
console  me.  That  is  charming  of  you.  You  find 
me  consoled,  and  you  are  furious.  How  like  a 
sympathetic  person  !  You  remind  me  of  a  story 
Harry  told  me  about  a  certain  philanthropist  who 
spent  twenty  years  of  his  life  in  trying  to  get  some 
grievance  redressed,  or  some  unjust  law  altered — I 
forget  exactly  what  it  was.  Finally  he  succeeded, 
and  nothing  could  exceed  his-  disappointment.  He 
had  absolutely  nothing  to  do,  almost  died  of  ennui^ 
and  became  a  confirmed  misanthrope.  And  be- 
sides, my  dear  old  Basil,  if  you  really  want  to 
console  me,  teach  me  rather  to  forget  what  has 
happened,  or  to  see  it  from  a  proper  artistic  point 
of  view.  Was  it  not  Gautier  who  used  to  write 
about  la  consolation  des  arts  ?  I  remember  picking 
up  a  little  vellum-covered  book  in  your  studio  one 
day  and  chancing  on  that  delightful  phrase.  Well, 
I  am  not  like  that  young  man  you  told  me  of  when 
we  were  down  at  Marlow  together,  the  young  man 
who  used  to  say  that  yellow  satin  could  console 
one  for  all  the  miseries  of  life.  I  love  beautiful 
things  that  one  can  touch  and  handle.  Old  bro- 
cades, green  bronzes,  lacquer-work,  carved  ivories, 
exquisite  surroundings,  luxury,  pomp,  there  is 
163 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

much  to  be  got  from  all  these.  But  the  artistic 
temperament  that  they  create,  or  at  any  rate  reveal, 
is  still  more  to  me.  To  become  the  spectator  of 
one's  own  life,  as  Harry  says,  is  to  escape  the 
suffering  of  life.  I  know  you  are  surprised  at  my 
talking  to  you  like  this.  You  have  not  realized 
how  I  have  developed.  I  was  a  schoolboy  when 
you  knew  me.  I  am  a  man  now.  I  have  new 
passions,  new  thoughts,  new  ideas.  I  am  different, 
but  you  must  not  like  me  less.  I  am  changed,  but 
you  must  always  be  my  friend.  Of  course  I  am 
very  fond  of  Harry.  But  I  know  that  you  are  better 
than  he  is.  You  are  not  stronger — you  are  too 
much  afraid  of  life — but  you  are  better.  And  how 
happy  we  used  to  be  together  !  Don't  leave  me, 
Basil,  and  don't  quarrel  with  me.  I  am  what  I  am. 
There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

The  painter  felt  strangely  moved.  The  lad  was 
infinitely  dear  to  him,  and  his  personality  had  been 
the  great  turning-point  in  his  art.  He  could  not 
bear  the  idea  of  reproaching  him  any  more.  After 
all,  his  indifference  was  probably  merely  a  mood 
that  would  pass  away.  There  was  so  much  in  him 
that  was  good,  so  much  in  him  that  was  noble. 

"  Well,  Dorian,"  he  said,  at  length,  with  a  sad 
smile,  "  I  won't  speak  to  you  again  about  this 
horrible  thing,  after  to-day.  I  only  trust  your  name 
won't  be  mentioned  in  connection  with  it.  The 
inquest  is  to  take  place  this  afternoon.  Have  they 
summoned  you  ?  " 

164 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Dorian  shook  his  head,  and  a  look  of  annoyance 
passed  over  his  face  at  the  mention  of  the  word 
"inquest."  There  was  something  so  crude  and 
vulgar  about  everything  of  the  kind.  "  They  don't 
know  my  name,"  he  answered. 

"  But  surely  she  did  .?  " 

"  Only  my  Christian  name,  and  that  I  am  quite 
sure  she  never  mentioned  to  any  one.  She  told 
me  once  that  they  were  all  rather  curious  to  learn 
who  I  was,  and  that  she  invariably  told  them  my 
name  was  Prince  Charming.  It  was  pretty  of  her. 
You  must  do  me  a  drawing  of  Sibyl,  Basil.  I 
should  like  to  have  something  more  of  her  than 
the  memory  of  a  few  kisses  and  some  broken 
pathetic  words." 

"  I  will  try  and  do  something,  Dorian,  if  it  would 
please  you.  But  you  must  come  and  sit  to  me 
yourself  again.     I  can't  get  on  without  you." 

"  I  can  never  sit  to  you  again,  Basil.  It  is  im- 
possible !  "  he  exclaimed,  starting  back. 

The  painter  stared  at  him.  "  My  dear  boy,  what 
nonsense  ! "  he  cried.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
don't  like  what  I  did  of  you  ?  Where  is  it  ?  Why 
have  you  pulled  the  screen  in  front  of  it  ?  Let 
me  look  at  it.  It  is  the  best  thing  I  have  ever 
done.  Do  take  the  screen  away,  Dorian.  It  is 
simply  disgraceful  of  your  servant  hiding  my  work 
like  that.  I  felt  the  room  looked  different  as  I 
came  in." 

"  My  servant  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Basil. 
165 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

You  don't  imagine  I  let  him  arrange  my  room  for 
me  ?  He  settles  my  flowers  for  me  sometimes — 
that  is  all.  No  ;  I  did  it  myself.  The  light  was 
too  strong  on  the  portrait." 

"  Too  strong  !  Surely  not,  my  dear  fellow  }  It 
is  an  admirable  place  for  it.  Let  me  see  it."  And 
Hallward  walked  towards  the  corner  of  the  room. 

A  cry  of  terror  broke  from  Dorian  Gray's  lips, 
and  he  rushed  between  the  painter  and  the  screen. 
"  Basil,"  he  said,  looking  very  pale,  "  you  must  not 
look  at  it.     I  don't  wish  you  to." 

"  Not  look  at  my  own  work  !  you  are  not 
serious.  Why  shouldn't  I  look  at  it  ?"  exclaimed 
Hallward,  laughing. 

"  If  you  try  to  look  at  it,  Basil,  on  my  word  of 
honour  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as 
I  live.  I  am  quite  serious.  I  don't  offer  any  ex- 
planation, and  you  are  not  to  ask  for  any.  But, 
remember,  if  you  touch  this  screen,  everything  is 
over  between  us." 

Hallward  was  thunderstruck.  He  looked  at 
Dorian  Gray  in  absolute  amazement.  He  had 
never  seen  him  like  this  be/ore.  The  lad  was 
actually  pallid  with  rage.  His  hands  were  clenched, 
and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  like  disks  of  blue 
fire.     He  was  trembling  all  over. 

"  Dorian  ! " 

"  Don't  speak  !  " 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  Of  course  I  won't 
look  at  it  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  he  said,  rather 
i66 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

coldly,  turning  on  his  heel,  and  going  over  towards 
the  window.  "  But,  really,  it  seems  rather  absurd 
that  I  shouldn't  see  my  own  work,  especially  as  I 
am  going  to  exhibit  it  in  Paris  in  the  autumn.  I 
shall  probably  have  to  give  it  another  coat  of 
varnish  before  that,  so  I  must  see  it  some  day,  and 
why  not  to-day  ?  " 

"  To  exhibit  it !  You  want  to  exhibit  it  ?  "  ex- 
claimed* Dorian  Gray,  a  strange  sense  of  terror 
creeping  over  him.  Was  the  world  going  to  be 
shown  his  secret  ?  Were  people  to  gape  at  the 
mystery  of  his  life  ?  That  was  impossible.  Some- 
thing— he  did  not  know  what — had  to  be  done  at 
once. 

"  Yes ;  I  don't  suppose  you  will  object  to  that. 
Georges  Petit  is  going  to  collect  all  my  best  pic- 
tures for  a  special  exhibition  in  the  Rue  de  Seze, 
which  will  open  the  first  w^eek  in  October.  The 
portrait  will  only  be  away  a  month.  I  should 
think  you  could  easily  spare  it  for  that  time.  In 
fact,  you  are  sure  to  be  out  of  town.  And  if  you 
keep  it  always  behind  a  screen,  you  can't  care 
much  about  it" 

Dorian  Gray  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 
There  were  beads  of  perspiration  there.  He  felt 
that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  horrible  danger. 
"  You  told  me  a  month  ago  that  you  would  never 
exhibit  it,"  he  cried.  "  Why  have  you  changed 
your  mind  ?  You  people  who  go  in  for  being 
consistent  have  just  as  many  moods  as  others 
167 


tug  PICTUkE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

have.  The  only  difference  is  that  your  moods  are 
rather  meaningless.  You  can't  have  forgotten  that 
you  assured  me  most  solemnly  that  nothing  in  the 
world  would  induce  you  to  send  it  to  any  exhi- 
bition. You  told  Harry  exactly  the  same  thing." 
He  stopped  suddenly,  and  a  gleam  of  light  came 
into  his  eyes.  He  remembered  that  Lord  Henry 
had  said  to  him  once,  half  seriously  and  half  in 
jest,  "  If  you  want  to  have  a  strange  quartdr  of  an 
hour,  get  Basil  to  tell  you  why  he  won't  exhibit 
your  picture.  He  told  me  why  he  wouldn't,  and 
it  was  a  revelation  to  me."  Yes,  perhaps  Basil,  too, 
had  his  secret.     He  would  ask  him  and  try. 

"  Basil,"  he  said,  coming  over  quite  close,  and 
looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  "  we  have  each  of 
us  a  secret.  Let  me  know  yours,  and  I  shall  tell 
you  mine.  What  was  your  reason  for  refusing  to 
exhibit  my  picture  .''  " 

The  painter  shuddered  in  spite  of  himself. 
"  Dorian,  if  I  told  you,  you  might  like  me  less 
than  you  do,  and  you  would  certainly  laugh  at  me. 
I  could  not  bear  your  doing  either  of  those  two 
things.  If  you  wish  me  never  to  look  at  your 
picture  again,  I  am  content.  I  have  always  you 
to  look  at.  If  you  wish  the  best  work  I  have 
ever  done  to  be  hidden  from  the  world,  I  am  satis- 
fied. Your  friendship  is  dearer  to  me  than  any 
fame  or  reputation." 

"  No,  Basil,  you  must  tell  me,"  insisted  Dorian 
Gray.  "I  think  I  have  a  right  to  know."  His 
i68 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA'V. 

feeling  of  terror  had  passed  away,  and  curiosity- 
had  taken  its  place.  He  was  determined  to  find 
out  Basil  Hallward's  mystery. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,  Dorian,"  said  the  painter, 
looking  troubled.  *' Let  us  sit  down.  And  just 
answer  me  one  question.  Have  you  noticed  in  the 
picture  something  curious  ? — something  that  pro- 
bably at  first  did  not  strike  you,  but  that  revealed 
itself  to  you  suddenly  ?  " 

"  Basil ! "  cried  the  lad,  clutching  the  arms  of  his 
chair  with  trembling  hands,  and  gazing  at  him 
with  wild,  startled  eyes. 

"  I  see  you  did.  Don't  speak.  Wait  till  you 
hear  what  I  have  to  say.  Dorian,  from  the 
moment  I  met  you,  your  personality  had  the 
most  extraordinary  influence  over  me.  I  was 
dominated,  soul,  brain,  and  power  by  you.  You 
became  to  me  the  visible  incarnation  of  that  un- 
seen ideal  whose  memory  haunts  us  artists  like 
an  exquisite  dream.  I  worshipped  you.  I  grew 
jealous  of  every  one  to  whom  you  spoke.  I  wanted 
to  have  you  all  to  myself  I  was  only  happy  when 
I  was  with  you.  When  you  were  away  from  me 
you  were  still  present  in  my  art.  ...  Of  course  I 
never  let  you  know  anything  about  this.  It  would 
have  been  impossible.  You  would  not  have  under- 
stood it.  I  hardly  understood  it  myself  I  only 
knew  that  I  had  seen  perfection  face  to  face,  and 
that  the  world  had  become  wonderful  to  my  eyes — 
too  wonderful,  perhaps,  for  in  such  mad  worships 
169 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

there  is  peril,  the  peril  of  losing  them,  no  less  than 
the  peril  of  keeping  them.  .  .  .  Weeks  and  weeks 
went  on,  and  I  grew  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
you.  Then  came  a  new  development.  I  had  drawn 
you  as  Paris  in  dainty  armour,  and  as  Adonis 
with  huntsman's  cloak  and  polished  boar-spear. 
Crowned  with  heavy  lotus-blossoms  you  had  sat 
on  the  prow  of  Adrian's  barge,  gazing  across 
the  green  turbid  Nile.  You  had  leant  over  the 
still  pool  of  some  Greek  woodland,  and  seen  in 
the  water's  silent  silver  the  marvel  of  your  own 
face.  And  it  had  all  been  what  art  should  be, 
unconscious,  ideal,  and  remote.  One  day,  a  fatal 
day  I  sometimes  think,  I  determined  to  paint  a 
wonderful  portrait  of  you  as  you  actually  are,  not 
in  the  costume  of  dead  ages,  but  in  your  own  dress 
and  in  your  own  time.  Whether  it  was  the  Realism 
of  the  method,  or  the  mere  wonder  of  your  own 
personality,  thus  directly  presented  to  me  without 
mist  or  veil,  I  cannot  tell.  But  I  know  that  as  I 
worked  at  it,  every  flake  and  film  of  colour  seemed 
to  me  to  reveal  my  secret.  I  grew  afraid  that 
others  would  know  of  my  idolatry.  I  felt,  Dorian, 
that  I  had  told  too  much,  that  I  had  put  too  much 
of  myself  into  it.  Then  it  was  that  I  resolved 
never  to  allow  the  picture  to  be  exhibited.  You 
were  a  little  annoyed ;  but  then  you  did  not  realize 
all  that  it  meant  to  me.  Harry,  to  whom  I  talked 
about  it,  laughed  at  me.  But  I  did  not  mind  that. 
When  the  picture  was  finished,  and  I  sat  alone 
170 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

with  it,  I  felt  that  I  was  right.  .  .  .  Well,  after  a 
few  days  the  thing  left  my  studio,  and  as  soon 
as  I  had  got  rid  of  the  intolerable  fascination  of  its 
presence  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been  foolish 
in  imagining  that  I  had  seen  anything  in  it,  more 
than  that  you  were  extremely  good-looking  and 
that  I  could  paint.  Even  now  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing that  it  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  the  passion 
one  feels  in  creation  is  ever  really  shown  in  the 
work  one  creates.  Art  is  always  more  abstract 
than  we  fancy.  Form  and  colour  tell  us  of  form 
and  colour — that  is  all.  It  often  seems  to  me  that 
art  conceals  the  artist  far  more  completely  than  it 
ever  reveals  him.  And  so  when  I  got  this  offer 
from  Paris  I  determined  to  make  your  portrait  the 
principal  thing  in  my  exhibition.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  that  you  would  refuse.  I  see  now  that  you 
were  right.  The  picture  cannot  be  shown.  You 
must  not  be  angry  with  me,  Dorian,  for  what  I 
have  told  you.  As  I  said  to  Harry,  once,  you  are 
made  to  be  worshipped." 

Dorian  Gray  drew  a  long  breath.  The  colour 
came  back  to  his  cheeks,  and  a  smile  played  about 
his  lips.  The  peril  was  over.  He  was  safe  for  the 
time.  Yet  he  could  not  help  feeling  infinite  pity 
for  the  painter  who  had  just  made  this  strange 
confession  to  him,  and  wondered  if  he  himself  would 
ever  be  so  dominated  by  the  personality  of  a  friend. 
Lord  Henry  had  the  charm  of  being  very  dangerous. 
But  that  was  all.  He  was  too  clever  and  too 
171 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

cynical  to  be  really  fond  of.  Would  there  ever 
be  some  one  who  would  fill  him  with  a  strange 
idolatry?  Was  that  one  of  the  things  that  life 
had  in  store  ? 

"  It  is  extraordinary  to  me,  Dorian,"  said  Hall- 
ward,  "  that  you  should  have  seen  this  in  the 
portrait.     Did  you  really  see  it  ?  " 

"  I  saw  something  in  it,"  he  answered,  "  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  me  very  curious." 

"  Well,  you  don't  mind  my  looking  at  the  thing 
now  } " 

Dorian  shook  his  head.  *'  You  must  not  ask  me 
that,  Basil.  I  could  not  possibly  let  you  stand  in 
front  of  that  picture." 

"  You  will  some  day,  surely  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  And  now  good- 
bye, Dorian.  You  have  been  the  one  person  in 
my  life  who  has  really  influenced  my  art.  What- 
ever I  have  done  that  is  good,  I  owe  to  you.  Ah  ! 
you  don't  know  what  it  cost  me  to  tell  you  all  that 
I  have  told  you." 

"  My  dear  Basil,"  said  Dorian,  "  what  have  you 
told  me  }  Simply  that  you  felt  that  you  admired 
me  too  much.     That  is  not  even  a  compliment." 

"  It  was  not  intended  as  a  compliment.  It  was 
a  confession.  Now  that  I  have  made  it,  something 
seems  to  have  gone  out  of  me.  Perhaps  one  should 
never  put  one's  worship  into  words." 

"It  was  a  very  disappointing  confession." 
172 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Why,  what  did  you  expect,  Dorian  ?  You 
didn't  see  anything  else  in  the  picture,  did  you  ? 
There  was  nothing  else  to  see  ?  " 

"  No  ;  there  was  nothing  else  to  see.  Why  do 
you  ask  ?  But  you  mustn't  talk  about  worship.  It 
is  foolish.  You  and  I  are  friends,  Basil,  and  we 
must  always  remain  so." 

"  You  have  got  Harry,"  said  the  painter,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  Harry ! "  cried  the  lad,  with  a  ripple  of 
laughter.  "  Harry  spends  his  days  in  saying  what 
is  incredible,  and  his  evenings  in  doing  what  is 
improbable.  Just  the  sort  of  life  I  would  like  to 
lead.  But  still  I  don't  think  I  would  go  to  Harry 
if  I  were  in  trouble.  I  would  sooner  go  to  you,  Basil." 

"You  will  sit  to  me  again  }" 

"  Impossible!" 

"  You  spoil  my  life  as  an  artist  by  refusing, 
Dorian.  No  man  came  across  two  ideal  things. 
Few  come  across  one." 

"  I  can't  explain  it  to  you,  Basil,  but  I  must 
never  sit  to  you  again.  There  is  something  fatal 
about  a  portrait.  It  has  a  life  of  its  own.  I  will 
come  and  have  tea  with  you.  That  will  be  just  as 
pleasant." 

"  Pleasanter  for  you,  I  am  afraid,"  murmured 
Hallward,  regretfully.  "  And  now  good-bye.  I  am 
sorry  you  won't  let  me  look  at  the  picture  once 
again.  But  that  can't  be  helped.  I  quite  under- 
stand what  you  feel  about  it." 

As  he  left  the  room,  Dorian  Gray  smiled  to 
173 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

himself.  Poor  Basil !  how  little  he  knew  of  the 
true  reason !  And  how  strange  it  was  that,  instead 
of  having  been  forced  to  reveal  his  own  secret,  he 
had  succeeded,  almost  by  chance,  in  wresting  a 
secret  from  his  friend  !  How  much  that  strange 
confession  explained  to  him  !  The  painter's  absurd 
fits  of  jealousy,  his  wild  devotion,  his  extravagant 
panegyrics,  his  curious  reticences — he  understood 
them  all  now,  and  he  felt  sorry.  There  seemed 
to  him  to  be  something  tragic  in  a  friendship  so 
coloured  by  romance. 

He  sighed,  and  touched  the  bell.  The  portrait 
must  be  hidden  away  at  all  costs.  He  could  not 
run  such  a  risk  of  discovery  again.  It  had  been 
mad  of  him  to  have  allowed  the  thing  to  remain, 
even  for  an  hour,  in  a  room  to  which  any  of  his 
friends  had  access. 


^74 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHEN  his  servant  entered,  he  looked  at  him 
steadfastly,  and  wondered  if  he  had  thought 
of  peering  behind  the  screen.  The  man  was  quite 
impassive,  and  waited  for  his  orders.  Dorian  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  walked  over  to  the  glass  and  glanced 
into  it.  He  could  see  the  reflection  of  Victor's  face 
perfectly.  It  was  like  a  placid  mask  of  servility. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  there.  Yet  he 
thought  it  best  to  be  on  his  guard. 

Speaking  very  slowly,  he  told  him  to  tell  the 
housekeeper  that  he  wanted  to  see  her,  and  then  to 
go  to  the  frame-maker  and  ask  him  to  send  two 
of  his  men  round  at  once.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
as  the  man  left  the  room  his  eyes  wandered  in  the 
direction  of  the  screen.  Or  was  that  merely  his 
own  fancy  ? 

After  a  few  moments,  in  her  black  silk  dress, 
with  old-fashioned  thread  mittens  on  her  wrinkled 
hands,  Mrs.  Leaf  bustled  into  the  library.  He 
f  asked  her  for  the  key  of  the  schoolroom. 

"The  old  schoolroom,  Mr.  Dorian?"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Why,  it  is  full  of  dust.  I  must  get  it 
175 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

arranged,  and  put  straight  before  you  go  into  it. 
It  is  not  fit  for  you  to  see,  sir.  It  is  not, 
indeed." 

"  I  don't  want  it  put  straight,  Leaf  I  only  want 
the  key." 

"Well,  sir,  you'll  be  covered  with  cobwebs  if 
you  go  into  it.  Why,  it  hasn't  been  opened  for 
nearly  five  years,  not  since  his  lordship  died." 

He  winced  at  the  mention  of  his  grandfather. 
He  had  hateful  memories  of  him.  "  That  does  not 
matter,"  he  answered.  "  I  simply  want  to  see  the 
place — that  is  all.     Give  me  the  key." 

"And  here  is  the  key,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady, 
going  over  the  contents  of  her  bunch  with  tremu- 
lously uncertain  hands.  "  Here  is  the  key.  I'll 
have  it  off  the  bunch  in  a  moment.  But  you  don't 
think  of  living  up  there,  sir,  and  you  so  comfort- 
able here  .? " 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  petulantly.  "  Thank  you, 
Leaf     That  will  do." 

She  lingered  for  a  few  moments,  and  was  gar- 
rulous over  some  detail  of  the  household.  He 
sighed,  and  told  her  to  manage  things  as  she 
thought  best.    She  left  the  room,  wreathed  in  smiles. 

As  the  door  closed,  Dorian  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  and  looked  round  the  room.  His  eye  fell 
on  a  large  purple  satin  coverlet  heavily  em- 
broidered with  gold,  a  splendid  piece  of  late 
seventeenth-century  Venetian  work  that  his  grand- 
father had  found  in  a  convent  near  Bologna.  Yes, 
176 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

that  would  serve  to  wrap  the  dreadful  thing  in.  It 
had  perhaps  served  often  as  a  pall  for  the  dead. 
Now  it  was  to  hide  something  that  had  a  corrup- 
tion of  its  own,  worse  than  the  corruption  of  death 
itself — something  that  would  breed  horrors  and  yet 
would  never  die.  What  the  worm  was  to  the  corpse, 
his  sins  would  be  to  the  painted  image  on  the  can- 
vas. They  would  mar  its  beauty,  and  eat  away  its 
grace.  They  would  defile  it,  and  make  it  shame- 
ful. And  yet  the  thing  would  still  live  on.  It 
would  be  always  alive. 

He  shuddered,  and  for  a  moment  he  regretted 
that  he  had  not  told  Basil  the  true  reason  why  he  had 
wished  to  hide  the  picture  away.  Basil  would  have 
helped  him  to  resist  Lord  Henry's  influence,  and 
the  still  more  poisonous  influences  that  came  from 
his  own  temperament.  The  love  that  he  bore  him 
— for  it  was  really  love— had  nothing  in  it  that  was 
not  noble  and  intellectual.  It  was  not  that  mere 
physical  admiration  of  beauty  that  is  born  of  the 
senses,  and  that  dies  when  the  senses  tire.  It  was 
such  love  as  Michael  Angelo  had  known,  and  Mon- 
taigne, and  Winckelmann,  and  Shakespeare  him- 
self. Yes,  Basil  could  have  saved  him.  But  it 
was  too  late  now.  The  past  could  always  be 
annihilated.  Regret,  denial,  or  forgetfulness  could 
do  that.  But  the  future  was  inevitable.  There 
were  passions  in  him  that  would  find  their  terrible 
outlet,  dreams  that  would  make  the  shadow  of 
their  evil  real. 

177  N 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

He  took  up  from  the  couch  the  great  purple- 
and-gold  texture  that  covered  it,  and,  holding  it  in 
his  hands,  passed  behind  the  screen.  Was  the  face 
on  the  canvas  viler  than  before  ?  It  seemed  to  him 
that  it  was  unchanged  ;  and  yet  his  loathing  of  it 
was  intensified.  Gold  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  rose-red 
lips — they  all  were  there.  It  was  simply  the  ex- 
pression that  had  altered.  That  was  horrible  in 
its  cruelty.  Compared  to  what  he  saw  in  it  of 
censure  or  rebuke,  how  shallow  Basil's  reproaches 
about  Sibyl  Vane  had  been ! — how  shallow,  and  of 
what  little  account !  His  own  soul  was  looking 
out  at  him  from  the  canvas  and  calling  him  to 
judgment.  A  look  of  pain  came  across  him,  and 
he  flung  the  rich  pall  over  the  picture.  As  he  did 
so,  a  knock  came  to  the  door.  He  passed  out  as 
his  servant  entered. 

"The  persons  are  here,  Monsieur." 

He  felt  that  the  man  must  be  got  rid  of  at  once. 
He  must  not  be  allowed  to  know  where  the  picture 
was  being  taken  to.  There  was  something  sly 
about  him,  and  he  had  thoughtful,  treacherous 
eyes.  Sitting  down  at  the  writing-table,  he  scribbled 
a  note  to  Lord  Henry,  asking  him  to  send  him 
round  something  to  read,  and  reminding  him 
that  they  were  to  meet  at  eight-fifteen  that 
evening. 

"Wait  for  an  answer,"  he  said,  handing  it  to 
him,  "  and  show  the  men  in  here." 

In  two   or   three    minutes   there    was    another 
178 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

knock,  and  Mr.  Hubbard  himself,  the  celebrated 
frame-maker  of  South  Audley  Street,  came  in  with 
a  somewhat  rough-looking  young  assistant.  "Mr. 
Hubbard  was  a  florid,  red-whiskered  little  man, 
whose  admiration  for  art  was  considerably  tem- 
pered by  the  inveterate  impecuniosity  of  most  of 
the  artists  who  dealt  with  him.  As  a  rule,  he  never 
left  his  shop.  He  waited  for  people  to  come  to 
him.  But  he  always  made  an  exception  in  favour 
of  Dorian  Gray.  There  was  something  about 
Dorian  that  charmed  everybody.  It  was  a  pleasure 
even  to  see  him. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Gray  ? "  he  said, 
rubbing  his  fat  freckled  hands.  "  I  thought  I 
would  do  myself  the  honour  of  coming  round  in 
person.  I  have  just  got  a  beauty  of  a  frame,  sir. 
Picked  it  up  at  a  sale.  Old  Florentine.  Came 
from  Fonthill,  I  believe.  Admirably  suited  for  a 
religious  subject,  Mr.  Gray." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  have  given  yourself  the 
trouble  of  coming  round,  Mr.  Hubbard.  I  shall 
certainly  drop  in  and  look  at  the  frame— though  I 
don't  go  in  much  at  present  for  religious  art — but 
to-day  I  only  want  a  picture  carried  to  the  top  of 
the  house  for  me.  It  is  rather  heavy,  so  I  thought 
I  would  ask  you  to  lend  me  a  couple  of  your 
men." 

"  No  trouble  at  all,  Mr.  Gray.  I  am  delighted 
to  be  of  any  service  to  you.  Which  is  the  work  of 
art,  sir  ?  " 

179 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  F. 

"  This,"  replied  Dorian,  moving  the  screen  back. 
"  Can  you  move  it,  covering  and  all,  just  as  it 
is?  I  don't  want  it  to  get  scratched  going  up- 
stairs." 

"There  will  be  no  difficulty,  sir,"  said  the  genial 
frame-maker,  beginning,  with  the  aid  of  his 
assistant,  to  unhook  the  picture  from  the  long  brass 
chains  by  which  it  was  suspended.  "And,  now, 
where  shall  we  carry  it  to,  Mr.  Gray  ?  " 

"I  will  show  you  the  way,  Mr.  Hubbard,  if 
you  will  kindly  follow  me.  Or  perhaps  you  had 
better  go  in  front.  I  am  afraid  it  is  right  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  We  will  go  up  by  the  front 
staircase,  as  it  is  wider." 

He  held  the  door  open  for  them,  and  they  passed 
out  into  the  hall  and  began  the  ascent.  The 
elaborate  character  of  the  frame  had  made  the 
picture  extremely  bulky,  and  now  and  then,  in 
spite  of  the  obsequious  protests  of  Mr.  Hubbard, 
who  had  the  true  tradesman's  spirited  dislike  of 
seeing  a  gentleman  doing  anything  useful,  Dorian 
put  his  hand  to  it  so  as  to  help  them. 

"  Something  of  a  load  to  carry,  sir,"  gasped  the 
little  man,  when  they  reached  the  top  landing. 
And  he  wiped  his  shiny  forehead. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  rather  heavy,"  murmured  Dorian, 
as  he  unlocked  the  door  that  opened  into  the 
room  that  was  to  keep  for  him  the  curious 
secret  of  his  life  and  hide  his  soul  from  the  eyes 
of  men. 

i8o 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

He  had  not  entered  the  place  for  more  than  four 
years — not,  indeed,  since  he  had  used  it  first  as  a 
play-room  when  he  was  a  child,  and  then  as  a 
study  when  he  grew  somewhat  older.  It  was  a 
large,  well-proportioned  room,  which  had  been 
specially  built  by  the  last  Lord  Kelso  for  the  use 
of  the  little  grandson  whom,  for  his  strange  like- 
ness to  his  mother,  and  also  for  other  reasons, 
he  had  always  hated  and  desired  to  keep  at  a 
distance.  It  appeared  to  Dorian  to  have  but  little 
changed.  There  was  the  huge  Italian  cassone,  with 
its  fantastically-painted  panels  and  its  tarnished 
gilt  mouldings,  in  which  he  had  so  often  hidden 
himself  as  a  boy.  There  the  satinwood  bookcase 
filled  with  his  dog-eared  schoolbooks.  On  the 
wall  behind  it  was  hanging  the  same  ragged 
Flemish  tapestry  where  a  faded  king  and  queen 
were  playing  chess  in  a  garden,  while  a  company 
of  hawkers  rode  by,  carrying  hooded  birds  on  their 
gauntleted  wrists.  How  well  he  remembered  it 
all !  Every  moment  of  his  lonely  childhood  came 
back  to  him  as  he  looked  round.  He  recalled 
the  stainless  purity  of  his  boyish  life,  and  it  seemed 
horrible  to  him  that  it  was  here  the  fatal  portrait 
was  to  be  hidden  away.  How  little  he  had 
thought,  in  those  dead  days,  of  all  that  was  in 
store  for  him  ! 

But  there  was  no  other  place  in  the  house  so 
secure  from  prying  eyes  as  this.  He  had  the  key, 
and  no  one  else  could  enter  it.  Beneath  its  purple 
i8i 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

pall,  the  face  painted  on  the  canvas  could  grow 
bestial,  sodden,  and  unclean.  What  did  it  matter? 
No  one  could  see  it.  He  himself  would  not  see 
it.  Why  should  he  watch  the  hideous  corruption 
of  his  soul  ?  He  kept  his  youth — that  was  enough. 
And,  besides,  might  not  his  nature  grow  finer, 
after  all  ?  There  was  no  reason  that  the  future 
should  be  so  full  of  shame.  Some  love  might 
come  across  his  life,  and  purify  him,  and  shield 
him  from  those  sins  that  seemed  to  be  already 
stirring  in  spirit  and  in  flesh — those  curious  un- 
pictured  sins  whose  very  mystery  lent  them  their 
subtlety  and  their  charm.  Perhaps,  some  day,  the 
cruel  look  would  have  passed  away  from  the 
scarlet  sensitive  mouth,  and  he  might  show  to  the 
world  Basil  Hallward's  masterpiece. 

No  ;  that  was  impossible.  Hour  by  hour,  and 
week  by  week,  the  thing  upon  the  canvas  was 
growing  old.  It  might  escape  the  hideousness  of  sin, 
but  the  hideousness  of  age  was  in  store  for  it.  The 
cheeks  would  become  hollow  or  flaccid.  Yellow 
crow's-feet  would  creep  round  the  fading  eyes  and 
make  them  horrible.  The  hair  would  lose  its 
brightness,  the  mouth  would  gape  or  droop,  would 
be  foolish  or  gross,  as  the  mouths  of  old  men  are. 
There  would  be  the  wrinkled  throat,  the  cold, 
blue-veined  hands,  the  twisted  body,  that  he  re- 
membered in  the  grandfather  who  had  been  so 
stern  to  him  in  his  boyhood.  The  picture  had  to 
be  concealed.  There  was  no  help  for  it, 
183 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Bring  it  in,  Mr.  Hubbard,  please,"  he  said, 
wearily,  turning  round.  "  I  am  sorry  I  kept  you 
so  long.     I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

"  Always  glad  to  have  a  rest,  Mr.  Gray," 
answered  the  frame- maker,  who  was  still  gasping 
for  breath.     "  Where  shall  we  put  it,  sir  .? " 

"  Oh,  anywhere.  Here  :  this  will  do.  I  don't 
want  to  have  it  hung  up.  Just  lean  it  against  the 
wall.     Thanks." 

"  Might  one  look  at  the  work  of  art,  sir  ?  " 

Dorian  started.  "  It  would  not  interest  you, 
Mr.  Hubbard,"  he  said,  keeping  his  eye  on  the 
man.  He  felt  ready  to  leap  upon  him  and  fling 
him  to  the  ground  if  he  dared  to  lift  the  gorgeous 
hanging  that  concealed  the  secret  of  his  life.  "  I 
sha'n't  trouble  you  any  more  now.  I  am  much 
obliged  for  your  kindness  in  coming  round." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Gray.  Ever  ready 
to  do  anything  for  you,  sir."  And  Mr.  Hubbard 
tramped  downstairs,  followed  by  the  assistant,  who 
glanced  back  at  Dorian  with  a  look  of  shy  wonder 
in  his  rough,  uncomely  face.  He  had  never  seen 
any  one  so  marvellous. 

When  the  sound  of  their-  footsteps  had  died 
away,  Dorian  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket.  He  felt  safe  now.  No  one  would  ever 
look  upon  the  horrible  thing.  No  eye  but  his 
would  ever  see  his  shame. 

On  reaching  the  library  he  found  that  it  was  just 
after  five  o'clock,  and  that  the  tea  had  been  already 
183 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

brought  up.  On  a  little  tabic  of  dark  perfumed 
wood  thickly  incrusted  with  nacre,  a  present  from 
Lady  Radley,  his  guardian's  wife,  a  pretty  pro- 
fessional invalid,  who  had  spent  the  preceding 
winter  in  Cairo,  was  lying  a  note  from  Lord  Henry, 
and  beside  it  was  a  book  bound  in  yellow  paper, 
the  cover  slightly  torn  and  the  edges  soiled.  A 
copy  of  the  third  edition  of  T/ie  St.  James's  Gazette 
had  been  placed  on  the  tea-tray.  It  was  evident 
that  Victor  had  returned.  He  wondered  if  he  had 
'met  the  men  in  the  hall  as  they  were  leaving  the 
house,  and  had  wormed  out  of  them  what  they  had 
been  doing.  He  would  be  sure  to  miss  the  picture 
— had  no  doubt  missed  it  already,  while  he  had 
been  laying  the  tea-things.  The  screen  had  not 
been  set  back,  and  a  blank  space  was  visible  on  the 
wall.  Perhaps  some  night  he  might  find  him 
creeping  upstairs  and  trying  to  force  the  door  of 
the  room.  It  was  a  horrible  thing  to  have  a  spy 
in  one's  house.  He  had  heard  of  rich  men  who  had 
been  blackmailed  all  their  lives  by  some  servant 
who  had  read  a  letter,  or  overheard  a  conversation, 
or  picked  up  a  card  with  an  address,  or  found 
beneath  a  pillow  a  withered  flower  or  a  shred  of 
crumpled  lace. 

He  sighed,  and,  having  poured  himself  out  some 
tea,  opened  Lord  Henry's  note.  It  was  simply  to 
say  that  he  sent  him  round  the  evening  paper,  and 
a  book  that  might  interest  him,  and  that  he  would 
be  at  the  club  at  eight-fifteen.  He  opened  The  St, 
184 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

James's  languidly,  and  looked  through  it.  A  red 
pencil-mark  on  the  fifth  page  caught  his  eye.  It 
drew  attention  to  the  following  paragraph  : — 

"  Inquest  on  an  Actress. — An  inquest  was 
held  this  morning  at  the  Bell  Tavern,  Hoxton 
Road,  by  Mr.  Danby,  the  District  Coroner,  on  the 
body  of  Sibyl  Vane,  a  young  actress  recently  en- 
gaged at  the  Royal  Theatre,  Holborn.  A  verdict 
of  death  by  misadventure  was  returned.  Consider- 
able sympathy  was  expressed  for  the  mother  of 
the  deceased,  who  was  greatly  affected  during  the 
giving  of  her  own  evidence,  and  that  of  Dr.  Birrell, 
who  had  made  the  post-mortem  examination  of  the 
deceased." 

He  frowned,  and,  tearing  the  paper  in  two 
went  across  the  room  and  flung  the  pieces  away. 
How  ugly  it  all  was  !  And  how  horribly  real 
ugliness  made  things  !  He  felt  a  little  annoyed 
with  Lord  Henry  for  having  sent  him  the  report. 
And  it  was  certainly  stupid  of  him  to  have  marked 
it  with  red  pencil.  Victor  might  have  read  it. 
The  man  knew  more  than  enough  English  for  that. 

Perhaps  he  had  read  it,  and  had  begun  to  suspect 
something.  And,  yet,  what  did  it  matter  ?  What 
had  Dorian  Gray  to  do  with  Sibyl  Vane's  death? 
There  was  nothing  to  fear.  Dorian  Gray  had  not 
killed  her. 

His  eye  fell  on  the  yellow  book  that  Lord  Henry 
had  sent  him.  What  was  it,  he  wondered.  He 
185 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

went  towards  the  little  pearl-coloured  octagonal 
stand,  that  had  always  looked  to  him  like  the  work 
of  some  strange  Egj'ptian  bees  that  wrought  in 
silver,  and  taking  up  the  volume,  flung  himself  into 
an  arm-chair,  and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  became  absorbed.  It  was 
the  strangest  book  that  he  had  ever  read.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  in  exquisite  raiment,  and  to 
the  delicate  sound  of  flutes,  the  sins  of  the  world 
were  passing  in  dumb  show  before  him.  Things 
that  he  had  dimly  dreamed  of  were  suddenly  made 
real  to  him.  Things  of  which  he  had  never 
dreamed  were  gradually  revealed. 

It  was  a  novel  without  a  plot,  and  with  only  one 
character,  being,  indeed,  simply  a  psychological 
study  of  a  certain  young  Parisian,  who  spent  his 
life  trying  to  realize  in  the  nineteenth  century  all 
the  passions  and  modes  of  thought  that  belonged 
to  every  century  except  his  own,  and  to  sum  up,  as 
it  were,  in  himself  the  various  moods  through  which 
the  world-spirit  had  ever  passed,  loving  for  their 
mere  artificiality  those  renunciations  that  men  have 
unwisely  called  virtue,  as  much  as  those  natural 
rebellions  that  wise  men  still  call  sin.  The  style 
in  which  it  was  written  was  that  curious  jewelled 
style,  vivid  and  obscure  at  once,  full  of  m'^ot  and  of 
archaisms,  of  technical  expressions  and  of  elaborate 
paraphrases,  that  characterizes  the  work  of  some 
of  the  finest  artists  of  the  French  school  of 
Symholisies.  There  were  in  it  metaphors  as  mon- 
1 86 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

strous  as  orchids,  and  as  subtle  in  colour.  The  life 
of  the  senses  was  described  in  the  terms  of  mys- 
tical philosophy.  One  hardly  knew  at  times 
whether  one  was  reading  the  spiritual  ecstasies  of 
some  mediaeval  saint  or  the  morbid  confessions  of 
a  modern  sinner.  It  was  a  poisonous  book.  The 
heavy  odour  of  incense  seemed  to  cling  about  its 
pages  and  to  trouble  the  brain.  The  mere  cadence 
of  the  sentences,  the  subtle  monotony  of  their 
music,  so  full  as  it  was  of  complex  refrains  and 
movements  elaborately  repeated,  produced  in  the 
mind  of  the  lad,  as  he  passed  from  chapter  to 
chapter,  a  form  of  reverie,  a  malady  of  dreaming, 
that  made  him  unconscious  of  the  falling  day  and 
creeping  shadows. 

Cloudless,  and  pierced  by  one  solitary  star,  a 
copper-green  sky  gleamed  through  the  windows. 
He  read  on  by  its  wan  light  till  he  could  read  no 
more.  Then,  after  his  valet  had  reminded  him 
several  times  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  he  got 
up,  and,  going  into  the  next  room,  placed  the  book 
on  the  little  Florentine  table  that  always  stood  at 
his  bedside,  and  began  to  dress  for  dinner. 

It  was  almost  nine  o'clock  before  he  reached  the 
club,  where  he  found  Lord  Henry  sitting  alone,  in 
the  morning-room,  looking  very  much  bored. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Harry,"  he  cried,  "  but  really  it 
is  entirely  your  fault.  That  book  you  sent  me 
so  fascinated  me  that  I  forgot  how  the  time 
was  going," 

187 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

"Yes  :  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  replied  his 
host,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  liked  it,  Harry.  I  said  it  fasci- 
nated me.     There  is  a  great  difference." 

"  Ah,  you  have  discovered  that  ? "  murmured 
Lord  Henry.  And  they  passed  into  the  dining- 
room. 


CHAPTER   XL 

FOR  years,  Dorian  Gray  could  not  free  himself 
from  the  influence  of  this  book.  Or  perhaps 
it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that  he  never 
sought  to  free  himself  from  it  He  procured  from 
Paris  no  less  than  nine  large-paper  copies  of  the 
first  edition,  and  had  them  bound  in  different 
colours,  so  that  they  might  suit  his  various  moods 
and  the  changing  fancies  of  a  nature  over  which 
he  seemed,  at  times,  to  have  almost  entirely  lost 
control.  The  hero,  the  wonderful  young  Parisian, 
in  whom  the  romantic  and  the  scientific  tempera- 
ments were  so  strangely  blended,  became  to  him 
a  kind  of  prefiguring  type  of  himself  And,  indeed, 
the  whole  book  seemed  to  him  to  contain  the  story 
of  his  own  life,  written  before  he  had  lived  it. 

In  one  point  he  was  more  fortunate  than  the 
novel's  fantastic  hero.  He  never  knew — never, 
indeed,  had  any  cause  to  know — that  somewhat 
grotesque  dread  of  mirrors,  and  polished  metal 
surfaces,  and  still  water,  which  came  upon  the 
young  Parisian  so  early  in  his  life,  and  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  sudden  decay  of  a  beauty  that  had 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

once,  apparently,  been  so  remarkable.  It  was  with 
an  almost  cruel  joy — and  perhaps  in  nearly  every 
joy,  as  certainly  in  every  pleasure,  cruelty  has  its 
place — that  he  used  to  read  the  latter  part  of  the 
book,  with  its  really  tragic,  if  somewhat  over- 
emphasized, account  of  the  sorrow  and  despair  of 
one  who  had  himself  lost  what  in  others,  and  in  the 
world,  he  had  most  dearly  valued. 

For  the  wonderful  beauty  that  had  so  fascinated 
Basil  Hallward,  and  many  others  besides  him, 
seemed  never  to  leave  him.  Even  those  who  had 
heard  the  most  evil  things  against  him,  and  from 
time  to  time  strange  rumours  about  his  mode  of 
life  crept  through  London  and  became  the  chatter 
of  the  clubs,  could  not  believe  anything  to  his 
dishonour  when  they  saw  him,  He  had  always 
the  look  of  one  who  had  kept  himself  unspotted 
from  the  world.  Men  who  talked  grossly  became 
silent  when  Dorian  Gray  entered  the  room.  There 
was  something  in  the  purity  of  his  face  that  rebuked 
them.  His  mere  presence  seemed  to  recall  to  them 
the  memory  of  the  innocence  that  they  had  tar- 
nished. They  wondered  how  one  so  charming 
and  graceful  as  he  was  could  have  escaped  the 
stain  of  an  age  that  was  at  once  sordid  and 
sensual. 

Often,  on  returning  home  from  one  of  those 
mysterious  and  prolonged  absences  that  gave  rise 
to  such  strange  conjecture  among  those  who  were 
his  friends,  or  thought  that  they  were  so,  he  himself 

190 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

would  creep  upstairs  to  the  locked  room,  open  the 
door  with  the  key  that  never  left  him  now,  and 
stand,  with  a  mirror,  in  front  of  the  portrait  that 
Basil  Hallward  had  painted  of  him,  looking  now 
at  the  evil  and  aging  face  on  the  canvas,  and  now 
at  the  fair  young  face  that  laughed  back  at  him 
from  the  polished  glass.  The  very  sharpness  of 
the  contrast  used  to  quicken  his  sense  of  pleasure. 
He  grew  more  and  more  enamoured  of  his  own 
beauty,  more  and  more  interested  in  the  corruption 
of  his  own  soul.  He  would  examine  with  minute 
care,  and  sometimes  with  a  monstrous  and  terrible 
delight,  the  hideous  lines  that  seared  the  wrinkling 
forehead  or  crawled  around  the  heavy  sensual 
mouth,  wondering  sometimes  which  were  the  more 
horrible,  the  signs  of  sin  or  the  signs  of  age.  He 
would  place  his  white  hands  beside  the  coarse 
bloated  hands  of  the  picture,  and  smile.  He 
mocked  the  misshapen  body  and  the  failing 
limbs. 

There  were  moments,  indeed,  at  night,  when, 
lying  sleepless  in  his  own  delicately-scented 
chamber,  or  in  the  sordid  room  of  the  little  ill- 
famed  tavern  near  the  Docks,  which,  under  an 
assumed  name,  and  in  disguise,  it  was  his  habit 
to  frequent,  he  would  think  of  the  ruin  he  had 
brought  upon  his  soul,  with  a  pity  that  was  all 
the  more  poignant  because  it  was  purely 
selfish.  But  moments  such  as  these  were  rare. 
That  curiosity  about  life  which  Lord  Henry 
191 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

had  first  stirred  in  him,  as  they  sat  together  in 
the  garden  of  their  friend,  seemed  to  increase 
with  gratification.  The  more  he  knew,  the  more 
he  desired  to  know.  He  had  mad  hungers  that 
grew  more  ravenous  as  he  fed  them. 

Yet  he  was  not  really  reckless,  at  any  rate  in  his 
relations  to  society.  Once  or  twice  every  month 
during  the  winter,  and  on  each  Wednesday  evening 
while  the  season  lasted,  he  would  throw  open  to 
the  world  his  beautiful  house  and  have  the  most 
celebrated  musicians  of  the  day  to  charm  his  guests 
with  the  wonders  of  their  art.  His  little  dinners, 
in  the  settling  of  which  Lord  Henry  always  assisted 
him,  were  noted  as  much  for  the  careful  selection 
and  placing  of  those  invited,  as  for  the  exquisite 
taste  shown  in  the  decoration  of  the  table,  with  its 
subtle  symphonic  arrangements  of  exotic  flowers, 
and  embroidered  cloths,  and  antique  plate  of  gold 
and  silver.  Indeed,  there  were  many,  especially 
among  the  very  young  men,  who  saw,  or  fancied 
that  they  saw,  in  Dorian  Gray  the  true  realization 
of  a  type  of  which  they  had  often  dreamed  in  Eton 
or  Oxford  days,  a  type  that  was  to  combine  some- 
thing of  the  real  culture  of  the  scholar  with  all  the 
grace  and  distinction  and  perfect  manner  of  a 
citizen  of  the  world.  To  them  he  seemed  to  be  of 
the  company  of  those  whom  Dante  describes  as 
having  sought  to  "  make  themselves  perfect  by  the 
worship  of  beauty."  Like  Gautier,  he  was  one  for 
whom  "  the  visible  world  existed." 
192 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

And,  certainly,  to  him  Life  itself  was  the  first, 
the  greatest,  of  the  arts,  and  for  it  all  the  other  arts 
seemed  to  be  but  a  preparation.  Fashion,  by  which 
what  is  really  fantastic  becomes  for  a  moment 
universal,  and  Dandyism,  which,  in  its  own  way, 
is  an  attempt  to  assert  the  absolute  modernity  of 
beauty,  had,  of  course,  their  fascination  for  him. 
His  mode  of  dressing,  and  the  particular  styles  that 
from  time  to  time  he  affected,  had  their  marked 
influence  on  the  young,  exquisites  of  the  May  fair 
balls  and  Pall  Mall  club  windows,  who  copied  him 
in  everything  that  he  did,  and  tried  to  reproduce 
the  accidental  charm  of  his  graceful,  though  to 
him  only  half-serious,  fopperies. 

For,  while  he  was  but  too  ready  to  accept  the 
position  that  was  almost  immediately  offered  to 
him  on  his  coming  of  age,  and  found,  indeed,  a 
subtle  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  he  might  really 
become  to  the  London  of  his  own  day  what  to 
imperial  Neronian  Rome  the  author  of  the  "  Saty- 
ricon  "  once  had  been,  yet  in  his  inmost  heart  he 
desired  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  arbiter 
elegantiartmt,  to  be  consulted  on  the  wearing  of  a 
jewel,  or  the  knotting  of  a  necktie,  or  the  conduct 
of  a  cane.  He  sought  to  elaborate  some  new 
scheme  of  life  that  would  have  its  reasoned  philo- 
sophy and  its  ordered  principles,  and  find  in  the 
spiritualizing  of  the  senses  its  highest  realization. 

The  worship  of  the  senses  has  often,  and  with 
much  justice,  been  decried,  men  feeling  a  natural 
193  o 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY, 

instinct  of  terror  about  passions  and  sensations 
that  seem  stronger  than  themselves,  and  that  they 
are  conscious  of  sharing  with  the  less  highly 
organized  forms  of  existence.  But  it  appeared  to 
Dorian  Gray  that  the  true  nature  of  the  senses  had 
never  been  understood,  and  that  they  had  remained 
savage  and  animal  merely  because  the  world  had 
sought  to  starve  them  into  submission  or  to  kill 
them  by  pain,  instead  of  aiming  at  making  them 
elements  of  a  new  spirituality,  of  which  a  fine 
instinct  for  beauty  was  to  be  the  dominant  charac- 
teristic. As  he  looked  back  upon  man  moving 
through  History,  he  was  haunted  by  a  feeling  of 
loss.  So  much  had  been  surrendered  !  and  to  such 
little  purpose !  There  had  been  mad  wilful  rejec- 
tions, monstrous  forms  of  self-torture  and  self- 
denial,  whose  origin  was  fear,  and  whose  result 
was  a  degradation  infinitely  more  terrible  than  that 
fancied  degradation  from  which,  in  their  ignorance, 
they  had  sought  to  escape,  Nature,  in  her  wonderful 
irony,  driving  out  the  anchorite  to  feed  with  the 
wild  animals  of  the  desert  and  giving  to  the  hermit 
the  beasts  of  the  field  as  his  companions. 

Yes :  there  was  to  be,  as  Lord  Henry  had  pro- 
phesied, a  new  Hedonism  that  was  to  recreate  life, 
and  to  save  it  from  that  harsh,  uncomely  puritanism 
that  is  having,  in  our  own  day,  its  curious  revival. 
It  was  to  have  its  service  of  the  intellect,  certainly ; 
yet,  it  was  never  to  accept  any  theory  or  system 
that  would  involve  the  sacrifice  of  any  mode  of 
194 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

passionate  experience.  Its  aim,  indeed,  was  to  be 
experience  itself,  and  not  the  fruits  of  experience, 
sweet  or  bitter  as  they  might  be.  Of  the  asceticism 
that  deadens  the  senses,  as  of  the  vulgar  profligacy 
that  dulls  them,  it  was  to  know  nothing.  But  it 
was  to  teach  man  to  concentrate  himself  upon  the 
moments  of  a  life  that  is  itself  but  a  moment. 

There  are  few  of  us  who  have  not  sometimes 
wakened  before  dawn,  either  after  one  of  those 
dreamless  nights  that  make  us  almost  enamoured 
of  death,  or  one  of  those  nights  of  horror  and 
misshapen  joy,  when  through  the  chambers  of  the 
brain  sweep  phantoms  more  terrible  than  reality 
itself,  and  instinct  with  that  vivid  life  that  lurks  in 
all  grotesques,  and  that  lends  to  Gothic  art  its 
enduring  vitality,  this  art  being,  one  might  fancy, 
especially  the  art  of  those  whose  minds  have  been 
troubled  with  the  malady  of  reverie.  Gradually 
white  fingers  creep  through  the  curtains,  and  they 
appear  to  tremble.  In  black  fantastic  shapes,  dumb 
shadows  crawl  into  the  corners  of  the  room,  and 
crouch  there.  Outside,  there  is  the  stirring  of 
birds  among  the  leaves,  or  the  sound  of  men  going 
forth  to  their  work,  or  the  sigh  and  sob  of  the  wind 
coming  down  from  the  hills,  and  wandering  round 
the  silent  house,  as  though  it  feared  to  wake  the 
sleepers,  and  yet  must  needs  call  forth  sleep  from 
her  purple  cave.  Veil  after  veilbf  thin  dusky  gauze 
is  lifted,  and  by  degrees  the  forms  and  colours  of 
things  are  restored  to  them,  and  we  watch  the 
195 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

dawn  remaking  the  world  in  its  antique  pattern. 
The  wan  mirrors  get  back  their  mimic  life.  The 
flameless  tapers  stand  where  we  had  left  them, 
and  beside  them  lies  the  half-cut  book  that  we  had 
been  studying,  or  the  wired  flower  that  we  had 
worn  at  the  ball,  or  the  letter  that  we  had  been 
afraid  to  read,  or  that  we  had  read  too  often. 
Nothing  seems  to  us  changed.  Out  of  the  unreal 
shadows  of  the  night  comes  back  the  real  life  that 
we  had  known.  We  have  to  resume  it  where  we  had 
left  off,  and  there  steals  over  us  a  terrible  sense  of 
the  necessity  for  the  continuance  of  energy  in  the 
same  wearisome  round  of  stereotyped  habits,  or  a 
wild  longing,  it  may  be,  that  our  eyelids  might 
open  some  morning  upon  a  world  that  had  been 
refashioned  anew  in  the  darkness  for  our  pleasure, 
a  world  in  which  things  would  have  fresh  shapes 
and  colours,  and  be  changed,  or  have  other  secrets, 
a  world  in  which  the  past  would  have  little  or  no 
place,  or  survive,  at  any  rate,  in  no  conscious  form 
of  obligation  or  regret,  the  remembrance  even  of 
joy  having  its  bitterness,  and  the  memories  of 
pleasure  their  pain. 

It  was  the  creation  of  such  worlds  as  these  that 
seemed  to  Dorian  Gray  to  be  the  true  object,  or 
amongst  the  true  objects,  of  life  ;  and  in  his 
search  for  sensations  that  would  be  at  once  new 
and  delightful,  and  possess  that  element  of  strange- 
ness that  is  so  essential  to  romance,  he  w6uld  often 
adopt  certain  modes  of  thought  that  he  knew  to 
196 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

be  really  alien  to  his  nature,  abandon  himself  to 
their  subtle  influences,  and  then,  having,  as  it  were, 
caught  their  colour  and  satisfied  his  intellectual 
curiosity,  leave  them  with  that  curious  indifference 
that  is  not  incompatible  with  a  real  ardour  of 
temperament,  and  that  indeed,  according  to 
certain  modern  psychologists,  is  often  a  condition 
of  it. 

It  was  rumoured  of  him  once  that  he  was  about 
to  join  the  Roman  Catholic  communion  ;  and 
certainly  the  Roman  ritual  had  always  a  great 
attraction  for  him.  The  daily  sacrifice,  more 
awful  really  than  all  the  sacrifices  of  the  antique 
world,  stirred  him  as  much  by  its  superb  rejection 
of  the  evidence  of  the  senses  as  by  the  primitive 
simplicity  of  its  elements  and  the  eternal  pathos 
of  the  human  tragedy  that  it  sought  to  symbolize. 
He  loved  to  kneel  down  on  the  cold  marble  pave- 
ment, and  watch  the  priest,  in  his  stiff  flowered 
dalmatic,  slowly  and  with  white  hands  moving 
aside  the  veil  of  the  tabernacle,  or  raising  aloft  the 
jewelled  lantern-shaped  monstrance  with  that 
pallid  wafer  that  at  times,  one  would  fain  think,  is 
indeed  the  '' panis  cceiestis,'  the  bread  of  angels, 
or,  robed  in  the  garments  of  the  Passion  of  Christ, 
breaking  the  Host  into  the  chalice,  and  smiting 
his  breast  for  his  sins.  The  fuming  censers,  that 
the  grave  boys,  in  their  lace  and  scarlet,  tossed 
into  the  air  like  great  gilt  flowers,  had  their  subtle 
fascination  for  him.     As  he  passed  out,  he  used  to 

197 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

look  with  wonder  at  the  black  confessionals,  and 
long  to  sit  in  the  dim  shadow  of  one  of  them  and 
listen  to  men  and  women  whispering  through  the 
worn  grating  the  true  story  of  their  lives. 

But  he  never  fell  into  the  error  of  arresting  his 
intellectual  development  by  any  formal  acceptance 
of  creed  or  system,  or  of  mistaking,  for  a  house  in 
which  to  live,  an  inn  that  is  but  suitable  for  the 
sojourn  of  a  night,  or  for  a  few  hours  of  a  night 
in  which  there  are  no  stars  and  the  moon  is  in 
travail.  Mysticism,  with  its  marvellous  power  of 
making  common  things  strange  to  us,  and  the 
subtle  antinomianism  that  always  seems  to  accom- 
pany it,  moved  him  for  a  season  ;  and  for  a  season 
he  inclined  to  the  materialistic  doctrines  of  the 
Darivinismus  movement  in  Germany,  and  found 
a  curious  pleasure  in  tracing  the  thoughts  and. 
passions  of  men  to  some  pearly  cell  in  the  brain, 
or  some  white  nerve  in  the  body,  delighting  in  the 
conception  of  the  absolute  dependence  of  the 
spirit  on  certain  physical  conditions,  morbid  or 
healthy,  normal  or  diseased.  Yet,  as  has  been 
said  of  him  before,  no  theory  of  life  seemed  to 
him  to  be  of  any  importance  compared  with  life 
itself.  He  felt  keenly  conscious  of  how  barren  all 
intellectual  speculation  is  when  separated  from 
action  and  experiment.  He  knew  that  the  senses, 
no  less  than  the  soul,  have  their  spiritual  mysteries 
to  reveal. 

And  so  he  would  now  study  perfumes,  and  the 
198 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

secrets  of  their  manufacture,  distilling  heavily- 
scented  oils,  and  burning  odorous  gums  from  the 
East  He  saw  that  there  was  no  mood  of  the 
mind  that  had  not  its  counterpart  in  the  sensuous 
life,  and  set  himself  to  discover  their  true  relations, 
wondering  what  there  was  in  frankincense  that 
made  one  mystical,  and  in  ambergris  that  stirred 
one's  passions,  and  in  violets  that  woke  the 
memory  of  dead  romances,  and  in  musk  that 
troubled  the  brain,  and  in  champak  that  stained 
the  imagination  ;  and  seeking  often  to  elaborate 
a  real  psychology  of  perfumes,  and  to  estimate 
the  several  influences  of  sweet-smelling  roots,  and 
scented  pollen-laden  flowers,  of  aromatic  balms, 
and  of  dark  and  fragrant  woods,  of  spikenard  that 
sickens,  of  hovenia  that  makes  men  mad,  and  of 
aloes  that  are  said  to  be  able  to  expel  melancholy 
from  the  soul. 

At  another  time  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
music,  and  in  a  long  latticed  room,  with  a  vermilion- 
and-gold  ceiling  and  walls  of  olive-green  lacquer, 
he  used  to  give  curious  concerts  in  which  mad 
gypsies  tore  wild  music  from  little  zithers,  or  grave 
yellow- shawled  Tunisians  plucked  at  the  strained 
strings  of  monstrous  lutes,  while  grinning  negroes 
beat  monotonously  upon  copper  drums,  and,  crouch- 
ing upon  scarlet  mats,  slim  turbaned  Indians  blew 
through  long  pipes  of  reed  or  brass,  and  charmed, 
or  feigned  to  charm,  great  hooded  snakes  and 
horrible  horned  adders.  The  harsh  intervals  and 
J99 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

shrill  discords  of  barbaric  music  stirred  him  at 
times  when  Schubert's  grace,  and  Chopin's  beautiful 
sorrows,  and  the  mighty  harmonies  of  Beethoven 
himself,  fell  unheeded  on  his  ear.  He  collected 
together  from  all  parts  of  the  world  the  strangest 
instruments  that  could  be  found,  either  in  the 
tombs  of  dead  nations  or  among  the  few  savage 
tribes  that  have  survived  contact  with  Western 
civilizations,  and  loved  to  touch  and  try  them. 
He  had  the  vc\y?XQ.x\o\xs  jiiriiparis  of  the  Rio  Negro 
Indians,  that  women  are  not  allowed  to  look  at, 
and  that  even  youths  may  not  see  till  they  have 
been  subjected  to  fasting  and  scourging,  and  the 
earthen  jars  of  the  Peruvians  that  have  the  shrill 
cries  of  birds,  and  flutes  of  human  bones  such  as 
Alfonso  de  Ovalle  heard  in  Chili,  and  the  sonorous 
green  jaspers  that  are  found  near  Cuzco  and  give 
forth  a  note  of  singular  sweetness.  He  had  painted 
gourds  filled  with  pebbles  that  rattled  when  they 
were  shaken  ;  the  long  clarin  of  the  Mexicans, 
into  which  the  performer  does  not  blow,  but 
through  which  he  inhales  the  air  ;  the  harsh  ture 
of  the  Amazon  tribes,  that  is  sounded  by  the 
sentinels  who  sit  all  day  long  in  high  trees,  and 
can  be  heard,  it  is  said,  at  a  distance  of  three 
leagues ;  the  teponaztli^  that  has  two  vibrating 
tongues  of  wood,  and  is  beaten  with  sticks  that 
are  smeared  with  an  elastic  gum  obtained  from  the 
milky  juice  of  plants  ;  the  jW-bclls  of  the  Aztecs, 
that  are  hung  in  clusters  like  grapes  ;  and  a  huge 
200 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

cylindrical  drum,  covered  with  the  skins  of  great 
serpents,  like  the  one  that  Bernal  Diaz  saw  when 
he  went  with  Cortes  into  the  Mexican  temple,  and 
of  whose  doleful  sound  he  has  left  us  so  vivid  a 
description.  The  fantastic  character  of  these  in- 
struments fascinated  him,  and  he  felt  a  curious 
delight  in  the  thought  that  Art,  like  Nature,  has 
her  monsters,  things  of  bestial  shape  and  with 
hideous  voices.  Yet,  after  some  time,  he  wearied 
of  them,  and  would  sit  in  his  box  at  the  Opera, 
either  alone  or  with  Lord  Henry,  listening  in  rapt 
pleasure  to  "  Tannhauser,"  and  seeing  in  the  prelude 
to  that  great  work  of  art  a  presentation  of  the 
tragedy  of  his  own  soul. 

On  one  occasion  he  took  up  the  study  of  jewels, 
and  appeared  at  a  costume  ball  as  Anne  de 
Joyeuse,  Admiral  of  France,  in  a  dress  covered 
with  five  hundred  and  sixty  pearls.  This  taste  en- 
thralled him  for  years,  and,  indeed,  may  be  said  never 
to  have  left  him.  He  would  often  spend  a  whole 
day  settling  and  resettling  in  their  cases  the  various 
stones  that  he  had  collected,  such  as  the  olive-green 
chrysoberyl  that  turns  red  by  lamplight,  the  cymo- 
phane  with  its  wire-like  line  of  silver,  the  pista- 
chio-coloured peridot,  rose-pink  and  wine-yellow 
topazes,  carbuncles  of  fiery  scarlet  with  tremulous 
four-rayed  stars,  flame-red  cinnamon-stones,  orange 
and  violet  spinels,  and  amethysts  with  their  alter- 
nate layers  of  ruby  and  sapphire.  He  loved  the 
red  gold  of  the  sunstone,  and  the  moonstone's 
20 1 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

pearly  whiteness,  and  the  broken  rainbow  of  the 
milky  opal.  He  procured  from  Amsterdam  three 
emeralds  of  extraordinary  size  and  richness  of 
colour,  and  had  a  turquoise  de  la  vieille  roc/ie  that 
was  the  envy  of  all  the  connoisseurs. 

He  discovered  wonderful  stories,  also,  about 
jewels.  In  Alphonso's  "  Clericalis  Disciplina  "  a 
serpent  was  mentioned  with  eyes  of  real  jacinth, 
and  in  the  romantic  history  of  Alexander,  the 
Conqueror  of  Emathia  was  said  to  have  found 
in  the  vale  of  Jordan  snakes  "  with  collars  of  real 
emeralds  growing  on  their  backs."  There  was  a 
gem  in  the  brain  of  the  dragon,  Philostratus  told 
us,  and  "  by  the  exhibition  of  golden  letters  and  a 
scarlet  robe  "  the  monster  could  be  thrown  into 
a  magical  sleep,  and  slain.  According  to  the  great 
alchemist,  Pierre  do  Boniface,  the  diamond  ren- 
dered a  man  invisible,  and  the  agate  of  India  made 
him  eloquent.  The  cornelian  appeased  anger,  and 
the  hyacinth  provoked  sleep,  and  the  amethyst 
drove  away  the  fumes  of  wine.  The  garnet  cast 
out  demons,  and  the  hydropicus  deprived  the 
moon  of  her  colour.  The  selenite  waxed  and 
waned  with  the  moon,  and  the  meloceus,  that 
discovers  thieves,  could  be  affected  only  by  the 
blood  of  kids.  Leonardus  Camillus  had  seen  a 
white  stone  taken  from  the  brain  of  a  newly-killed 
toad,  that  was  a  certain  antidote  against  poison. 
The  bezoar,  that  was  found  in  the  heart  of  the 
Arabian  deer,  was  a  charm  that  could  cure  the 
202 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

plague.  In  the  nests  of  Arabian  birds  was  the 
aspilates,  that,  according  to  Democritus,  kept  the 
wearer  from  any  danger  by  fire. 

The  King  of  Ceilan  rode  through  his  city  with 
a  large  ruby  in  his  hand,  as  the  ceremony  of  his 
coronation.  The  gates  of  the  palace  of  John  the 
Priest  were  "  made  of  sardius,  with  the  horn  of 
the  horned  snake  inwrought,  so  that  no  man  might 
bring  poison  within."  Over  the  gable  were  "  two 
golden  apples,  in  which  were  two  carbuncles,"  so 
that  the  gold  might  shine  by  day,  and  the  carbuncles 
by  night  In  Lodge's  strange  romance  "  A  Marga- 
rite  of  America  "  it  was  stated  that  in  the  chamber 
of  the  queen  one  could  behold  "  all  the  chaste 
ladies  of  the  world,  inchased  out  of  silver,  looking 
through  fair  mirrours  of  chrysolites,  carbuncles, 
sapphires,  and  greene  emeraults."  Marco  Polo  had 
seen  the  inhabitants  of  Zipangu  place  rose-coloured 
pearls  in  the  mouths  of  the  dead.  A  sea-monster 
had  been  enamoured  of  the  pearl  that  the  diver 
brought  to  King  Perozes,  and  had  slain  the  thief, 
and  mourned  for  seven  moons  over  its  loss.  When 
the  Huns  lured  the  king  into  the  great  pit,  he  flung 
it  away — Procopius  tells  the  story — nor  was  it  ever 
found  again,  though  the  Emperor  Anastasius 
offered  five  hundred-weight  of  gold  pieces  for  it. 
The  King  of  Malabar  had  shown  to  a  certain 
Venetian  a  rosary  of  three  hundred  and  four  pearls, 
one  for  every  god  that  he  worshipped. 

When  the  Duke  de  Valentinois,  son  of  Alexander 
203 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

VI.,  visited  Louis  XII.  of  France,  his  horse  was 
loaded  with  gold  leaves,  according  to  Brantome, 
and  his  cap  had  double  rows  of  rubies  that  threw 
out  a  great  light.  Charles  of  England  had  ridden 
in  stirrups  hung  with  four  hundred  and  twenty- 
one  diamonds.  Richard  II.  had  a  coat,  valued  at 
thirty  thousand  marks,  which  was  covered  with 
balas  rubies.  Hall  described  Henry  VIII.,  on  his 
way  to  the  Tower  previous  to  his  coronation,  as 
wearing  "  a  jacket  of  raised  gold,  the  placard  em- 
broidered with  diamonds  and  other  rich  stones, 
and  a  great  bauderike  about  his  neck  of  large 
balasses."  The  favourites  of  James  I.  wore  ear- 
rings of  emeralds  set  in  gold  filigranc.  Edward 
II.  gave  to  Piers  Gaveston  a  suit  of  red-gold 
armour  studded  with  jacinths,  a  collar  of  gold 
roses  set  with  turquoise-stones,  and  a  skull-cap 
parsem^  with  pearls.  Henry  II.  wore  jewelled 
gloves  reaching  to  the  elbow,  and  had  a  hawk- 
glove  sewn  with  twelve  rubies  and  fifty-two  great 
orients.  The  ducal  hat  of  Charles  the  Rash,  the 
last  Duke  of  Burgundy  of  his  race,  was  hung  with 
pear-shaped  pearls,  and  studded  with  sapphires. 

How  exquisite  life  had  once  been  !  How  gor- 
geous in  its  pomp  and  decoration  !  Even  to  read 
of  the  luxury  of  the  dead  was  wonderful. 

Then  he  turned  his  attention   to  embroideries, 

and  to  the  tapestries  that  performed  the  office  of 

frescoes  in  the  chill  rooms  of  the  Northern  nations 

of  Europe.     As  he  investigated  the  subject — and 

204 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

he  always  had  an  extraordinary  faculty  of  becom- 
ing absolutely  absorbed  for  the  moment  in 
whatever  he  took  up — he  was  almost  saddened  by 
the  reflection  of  the  ruin  that  Time  brought  on 
beautiful  and  wonderful  things.  He,  at  any  rate, 
had  escaped  that.  Summer  followed  summer,  and 
the  yellow  jonquils  bloomed  and  died  many  times, 
and  nights  of  horror  repeated  the  story  of  their 
shame,  but  he  was  unchanged.  No  winter  marred 
his  face  or  stained  his  flower-like  bloom.  How 
different  it  was  with  material  things  !  Where  had 
they  passed  to  ?  Where  was  the  great  crocus- 
coloured  robe,  on  which  the  gods  fought  against 
the  giants,  that  had  been  worked  by  brown  girls 
for  the  pleasure  of  Athena .?  Where,  the  huge 
velarium  that  Nero  had  stretched  across  the 
Colosseum  at  Rome,  that  Titan  sail  of  purple  on 
which  was  represented  the  starry  sky,  and  Apollo 
driving  a  chariot  drawn  by  white  gilt-reined  steeds? 
He  longed  to  see  the  curious  table-napkins  wrought 
for  the  Priest  of  the  Sun,  on  which  were  displayed 
all  the  dainties  and  viands  that  could  be  wanted 
for  a  feast ;  the  mortuary  cloth  of  King  Chilperic, 
with  its  three  hundred  golden  bees  ;  the  fantastic 
robes  that  excited  the  indignation  of  the  Bishop 
of  Pontus,  and  were  figured  with  "  lions,  panthers, 
bears,  dogs,  forests,  rocks,  hunters — all,  in  fact,  that 
a  painter  can  copy  from  nature ;  "  and  the  coat 
that  Charles  of  Orleans  once  wore,  on  the  sleeves 
of  which  were  embroidered  the  verses  of  a  song 
205 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

beginning  '^Madame,  je  suis  tout  joyeux','  the 
musical  accompaniment  of  the  words  being 
wrought  in  gold  thread,  and  each  note,  of  square 
shape  in  those  days,  formed  with  four  pearls. 
He  read  of  the  room  that  was  prepared  at  the 
palace  at  Rheims  for  the  use  of  Queen  Joan  of 
Burgundy,  and  was  decorated  with  "  thirteen 
hundred  and  twenty-one  parrots,  made  in  broidery, 
and  blazoned  with  the  king's  arms,  and  five  hun- 
dred and  sixty-one  butterflies,  whose  wings  were 
similarly  ornamented  with  the  arms  of  the  queen, 
the  whole  worked  in  gold."  Catherine  dc  Medicis 
had  a  mourning-bed  made  for  her  of  black  velvet 
powdered  with  crescents  and  suns.  Its  curtains 
were  of  damask,  with  leafy  wreaths  and  garlands, 
figured  upon  a  gold  and  silver  ground,  and  fringed 
along  the  edges  with  broideries  of  pearls,  and  it 
stood  in  a  room  hung  with  rows  of  the  queen's 
devices  in  cut  black  velvet  upon  cloth  of  silver. 
Louis  XIV.  had  gold  embroidered  caryatides 
fifteen  feet  high  in  his  apartment.  The  state  bed 
of  Sobieski,  King  of  Poland,  was  made  of  Smyrna 
gold  brocade  embroidered  in  turquoises  with 
verses  from  the  Koran.  Its  supports  were  of 
silver  gilt,  beautifully  chased,  and  profusely  set 
with  enamelled  and  jewelled  medallions.  It  had 
been  taken  from  the  Turkish  camp  before  Vienna, 
and  the  standard  of  Mohammed  had  stood  beneath 
the  tremulous  gilt  of  its  canopy. 

And  so,  for  a  whole  year,  he  sought  to  accu- 
206 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

mulate  the  most  exquisite  specimens  that  he  could 
find  of  textile  and  embroidered  work,  getting  the 
dainty  Delhi  muslins,  finely  wrought  with  gold- 
thread palmates,  and  stitched  over  with  iridescent 
beetles'  wings  ;  the  Dacca  gauzes,  that  from  their 
transparency  are  known  in  the  East  as  "  woven 
air,"  and  "  running  water,"  and  "  evening  dew "  ; 
strange  figured  cloths  from  Java  ;  elaborate  yellow 
Chinese  hangings  ;  books  bound  in  tawny  satins 
or  fair  blue  silks,  and  wrought  with  Jieiirs  de  lys^ 
birds,  and  images  ;  veils  of  lacis  worked  in  Hungary 
point ;  Sicilian  brocades,  and  stiff  Spanish  velvets ; 
Georgian  work  with  its  gilt  coins,  and  Japanese 
Foukousas  with  their  green-toned  golds  and  their 
marvellously-plumaged  birds. 

He  had  a  special  passion,  also,  for  ecclesiastical 
vestments,  as  indeed  he  had  for  everything  con- 
nected with  the  service  of  the  Church.  In  the 
long  cedar  chests  that  lined  the  west  gallery  of 
his  house  he  had  stored  away  many  rare  and 
beautiful  specimens  of  what  is  really  the  raiment 
of  the  Bride  of  Christ,  who  must  wear  purple  and 
jewels  and  fine  linen  that  she  may  hide  the  pallid 
macerated  body  that  is  worn  by  the  suffering  that 
she  seeks  for,  and  wounded  by  self-inflicted  pain. 
He  possessed  a  gorgeous  cope  of  crimson  silk 
and  gold-thread  damask,  figured  with  a  repeating 
pattern  of  golden  pomegranates  set  in  six-petalled 
formal  blossoms,  beyond  which  on  either  side  was 
the  pine-apple  device  wrought  in  seed-pearls 
207 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

The  orphreys  were  divided  into  panels  represent- 
ing scenes  from  the  life  of  the  Virgin,  and  the 
coronation  of  the  Virgin  was  figured  in  coloured 
silks  upon  the  hood.  This  was  Italian  work  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  Another  cope  was  of  green 
velvet,  embroidered  with  heart-shaped  groups  of 
acanthus-leaves,  from  which  spread  long-stemmed 
white  blossoms,  the  details  of  which  were  picked 
out  with  silver  thread  and  coloured  crystals.  The 
morse  bore  a  seraph's  head  in  gold-thread  raised 
work.  The  orphreys  were  woven  in  a  diaper  of 
red  and  gold  silk,  and  were  starred  with  medallions 
of  many  saints  and  martyrs,  among  whom  was 
St.  Sebastian.  He  had  chasubles,  also,  of  amber- 
coloured  silk,  and  blue  silk  and  gold  brocade,  and 
yellow  silk  damask  and  cloth  of  gold,  figured  with 
representations  of  the  Passion  and  Crucifixion  of 
Christ,  and  embroidered  with  lions  and  peacocks 
and  other  emblems  ;  dalmatics  of  white  .satin  and 
pink  silk  damask,  decorated  with  tulips  and  dolphins 
and  fleiirs  de  lys  ;  altar  frontals  of  crimson  velvet 
and  blue  linen  ;  and  many  corporals,  chalice-veils, 
nd  sudaria.  In  the  mystic  offices  to  which  such 
things  were  put,  there  was  something  that  quickened 
his  imagination. 

For  these  treasures,  and  everything  that  he  col- 
lected in  his  lovely  house,  were  to  be  to  him 
means  of  forgetfulness,  modes  by  which  he  could 
escape,  for  a  season,  from  the  fear  that  seemed  to 
him  at  times  to  be  almost  too  great  to  be  borne. 
208 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Upon  the  walls  of  the  lonely  locked  room  where 
he  had  spent  so  much  of  his  boyhood,  he  had 
hung  with  his  own  hands  the  terrible  portrait 
whose  changing  features  showed  him  the  real 
degradation  of  his  life,  and  in  front  of  it  had 
draped  the  purple-and-gold  pall  as  a  curtain.  For 
weeks  he  would  not  go  there,  would  forget  the 
hideous  painted  thing,  and  get  back  his  light  heart, 
his  wonderful  joyousness,  his  passionate  absorption 
in  mere  existence.  Then,  suddenly,  some  night 
he  would  creep  out  of  the  house,  go  down  to 
dreadful  places  near  Blue  Gate  Fields,  and  stay 
there,  day  after  day,  until  he  was  driven  away. 
On  his  return  he  would  sit  in  front  of  the  picture, 
sometimes  loathing  it  and  himself,  but  filled,  at 
other  times,  with  that  pride  of  individualism  that 
is  half  the  fascination  of  sin,  and  smiling,  with 
secret  pleasure,  at  the  misshapen  shadow  that 
had  to  bear  the  burden  that  should  have  been  his 
own. 

After  a  few  years  he  could  not  endure  to  be 
long  out  of  England,  and  gave  up  the  villa  that 
he  had  shared  at  Trouville  with  Lord  Henry,  as 
well  as  the  little  white  walled- in  house  at  Algiers 
where  they  had  more  than  once  spent  the  winter. 
He  hated  to  be  separated  from  the  picture  that 
was  such  a  part  of  his  life,  and  was  also  afraid 
that  during  his  absence  some  one  might  gain 
access  to  the  room,  in  spite  of  the  elaborate  bars 
that  he  had  caused  to  be  placed  upon  the  door. 
209  -  p 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

He  was  quite  conscious  that  this  would  tell 
them  nothing.  It  was  true  that  the  portrait  still 
preserved,  under  all  the  foulness  and  ugliness  of 
the  face,  its  marked  likeness  to  himself;  but  what 
could  they  learn  from  that  ?  He  would  laugh  at 
any  one  who  tried  to  taunt  him.  He  had  not 
painted  it.  What  was  it  to  him  how  vile  and  full 
of  shame  it  looked  ?  Even  if  he  told  them,  would 
they  believe  it } 

Yet  he  was  afraid.  Sometimes  when  he  was 
down  at  his  great  house  in  Nottinghamshire,  enter- 
taining the  fashionable  young  men  of  his  own  rank 
who  were  his  chief  companions,  and  astounding 
the  county  by  the  wanton  luxury  and  gorgeous 
splendour  of  his  mode  of  life,  he  would  suddenly 
leave  his  guests  and  rush  back  to  town  to  see  that 
the  door  had  not  been  tampered  with,  and  that 
the  picture  was  still  there.  What  if  it  should  be 
stolen  ?  The  mere  thought  made  him  cold  with 
horror.  Surely  the  world  would  know  his  secret 
then.     Perhaps  the  world  already  suspected  it 

For,  while  he  fascinated  many,  there  were  not  a 
few  who  distrusted  him.  He  was  very  nearly 
blackballed  at  a  West  End  club  of  which  his  birth 
and  social  position  fully  entitled  him  to  become  a 
member,  and  it  was  said  that  on  one  occasion, 
when  he  was  brought  by  a  friend  into  the  smoking- 
room  of  the  Churchill,  the  Duke  of  Berwick  and 
another  gentleman  got  up  in  a  marked  manner  and 
went  out.     Curious  stories  became  current  about 

2IO 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

him  after  he  had  passed  his  twenty-fifth  year.  It 
was  rumoured  that  he  had  been  seen  brawling  with 
foreign  sailors  in  a  low  den  in  the  distant  parts  of 
Whitechapel,  and  that  he  consorted  with  thieves 
and  coiners  and  knew  the  mysteries  of  their  trade. 
His  extraordinary  absences  became  notorious,  and) 
when  he  used  to  reappear  again  in  society,  men 
would  whisper  to  each  other  in  corners,  or  pass 
him  with  a  sneer,  or  look  at  him  with  cold  search- 
ing eyes,  as  though  they  were  determined  to 
discover  his  secret. 

Of  such  insolences  and  attempted  slights  he,  of 
course,  took  no  notice,  and  in  the  opinion  of  most 
people  his  frank  debonnair  manner,  his  charming 
boyish  smile,  and  the  infinite  grace  of  that  wonder- 
ful youth  that  seemed  never  to  leave  him,  were  in 
themselves  a  sufficient  answer  to  the  calumnies, 
for  so  they  termed  them,  that  were  circulated  about 
him.  It  was  remarked,  how^ever,  that  some  of 
those  who  had  been  most  intimate  with  him 
appeared,  after  a  time,  to  shun  him.  Women  who 
had  wildly  adored  him,  and  for  his  sake  had 
braved  all  social  censure  and  set  convention  at 
defiance,  were  seen  to  grow  pallid  with  shame  or 
horror  if  Dorian  Gray  entered  the  room. 

Yet  these  whispered  scandals  only  increased 
in  the  eyes  of  many,  his  strange  and  dangerous 
charm.  His  great  w^ealth  was  a  certain  element 
of  security.  Society,  civilized  society  at  least,  is 
never  very  ready  to  believe  anything  to  the  detri- 

2X1 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

ment  of  those  who  are  both  rich  and  fascinating. 
It  feels  instinctively  that  manners  are  of  more 
importance  than  morals,  and,  in  its  opinion,  the 
highest  respectability  is  of  much  less  value  than 
the  possession  of  a  good  chef.  And,  after  all,  it  is 
a  very  poor  consolation  to  be  told  that  the  man 
who  has  given  one  a  bad  dinner,  or  poor  wine, 
is  irreproachable  in  his  private  life.  Even  the 
cardinal  virtues  cannot  atone  for  half-cold  efttre^es, 
as  Lord  Henry  remarked  once,  in  a  discussion  on 
the  subject ;  and  there  is  possibly  a  good  deal  to 
be  said  for  his  view.  For  the  canons  of  good 
society  are,  or  should  be,  the  same  as  the  canons 
of  art.  Form  is  absolutely  essential  to  it.  It 
should  have  the  dignity  of  a  ceremony,  as  well  as 
its  unreality,  and  should  combine  the  insincere 
character  of  a  romantic  play  with  the  wit  and 
beauty  that  make  such  plays  delightful  to  us.  Is 
insincerity  such  a  terrible  thing?  I  think  not.  It 
is  merely  a  method  by  which  we  can  multiply  our 
personalities. 

Such,  at  any  rate,  was  Dorian  Gray's  opinion. 
He  used  to  wonder  at  the  shallow  psychology  of 
those  who  conceive  the  Ego  in  man  as  a  thing 
simple,  permanent,  reliable,  and  of  one  essence. 
To  him,  man  was  a  being  with  myriad  lives  and 
myriad  sensations,  a  complex  multiform  creature 
that  bore  within  itself  strange  legacies  of  thought 
and  passion,  and  whose  very  flesh  was  tainted  with 
the  monstrous  maladies  of  the  dead.     He  loved  to 

212 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

stroll  through  the  gaunt  cold  picture-gallery  of  his 
country  house  and  look  at  the  various  portraits  of 
those  whose  blood  flowed  in  his  veins.  Here  was 
Philip  Herbert,  described  by  Francis  Osborne,  in 
his  "  Memoires  on  the  Reigns  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  King  James,"  as  one  who  was  "  caressed  by 
the  Court  for  his  handsome  face,  which  kept  him 
not  long  company."  Was  it  young  Herbert's  life 
that  he  sometimes  led  ?  Had  some  strange 
poisonous  germ  crept  from  body  to  body  till  it  had 
reached  his  own  ?  Was  it  some  dim  sense  of  that 
ruined  grace  that  had  made  him  so  suddenly,  and 
almost  without  cause,  give  utterance,  in  Basil 
Hallward's  studio,  to  the  mad  prayer  that  had  so 
changed  his  life  ?  Here,  in  gold-embroidered  red 
doublet,  jewelled  surcoat,  and  gilt-edged  ruff  and 
wrist-bands,  stood  Sir  Anthony  Sherard,  with  his 
silver-and-black  armour  piled  at  his  feet.  What 
had  this  man's  legacy  been  ?  Had  the  lover  of 
Giovanna  of  Naples  bequeathed  him  some  inheri- 
tance of  sin  and  shame  ?  Were  his  own  actions 
merely  the  dreams  that  the  dead  man  had  not 
dared  to  realize  ?  Here,  from  the  fading  canvas, 
smiled  Lady  Elizabeth  Devereux,  in  her  gauze  hood, 
pearl  stomacher,  and  pink  slashed  sleeves.  A 
flower  was  in  her  right  hand,  and  her  left  clasped 
an  enamelled  collar  of  white  and  damask  roses. 
On  a  table  by  her  side  lay  a  mandolin  and  an 
apple.  There  were  large  green  rosettes  upon  her 
little  pointed  shoes.  He  knew  her  life,  and  the 
213 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

strange  stories  that  were  told  about  her  lovers. 
Had  he  something  of  her  temperament  in  him  ? 
These  oval  heavy-lidded  eyes  seemed  to  look 
curiously  at  him.  What  of  George  Willoughby, 
with  his  powdered  hair  and  fantastic  patches? 
How  evil  he  looked  !  The  face  was  saturnine  and 
swarthy,  and  the  sensual  lips  seemed  to  be  twisted 
with  disdain.  Delicate  lace  ruffles  fell  over  the 
lean  yellow  hands  that  were  so  overladen  with 
rings.  He  had  been  a  macaroni  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  the  friend,  in  his  youth,  of  Lord 
Ferrars.  What  of  the  second  Lord  Beckenham, 
the  companion  of  the  Prince  Regent  in  his  wildest 
days,  and  one  of  the  witnesses  at  the  secret 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  ?  How  proud  and 
handsome  he  was,  with  his  chestnut  curls  and 
insolent  pose  !  What  passions  had  he  bequeathed? 
The  world  had  looked  upon  him  as  infamous.  He 
had  led  the  orgies  at  Carlton  House.  The  star  of 
the  Garter  glittered  upon  his  breast.  Beside  him 
hung  the  portrait  of  his  wife,  a  pallid,  thin-lipped 
woman  in  black.  Her  blood,  also,  stirred  within 
him.  How  curious  it  all  seemed  !  And  his  mother 
with  her  Lady  Hamilton  face,  and  her  moist  wine- 
dashed  lips — he  knew  what  he  had  got  from  her. 
He  had  got  from  her  his  beauty,  and  his  passion  for 
the  beauty  of  others.  She  laughed  at  him  in  her 
loose  Bacchante  dress.  There  were  vine  leaves  in 
her  hair.  The  purple  spilled  from  the  cup  she  was 
holding.  The  carnations  of  the  painting  had 
214 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

withered,  but  the  eyes  were  still  wonderful  in  their 
depth  and  brilliancy  of  colour.  They  seemed  to 
follow  him  wherever  he  went. 

Yet  one  had  ancestors  in  literature,  as  well  as  in 
one's  own  race,  nearer  perhaps  in  type  and  tem- 
perament, many  of  them,  and  certainly  with  an 
influence  of  which  one  was  more  absolutely  con- 
scious. There  were  times  when  it  appeared 
to  Dorian  Gray  that  the  whole  of  history  was 
merely  the  record  of  his  own  life,  not  as  he  had 
lived  it  in  act  and  circumstance,  but  as  his  imagi- 
nation had  created  it  for  him,  as  it  had  been  in  his 
brain  and  in  his  passions.  He  felt  that  he  had 
known  them  all,  those  strange  terrible  figures  that 
had  passed  across  the  stage  of  the  world  and  made 
sin  so  marvellous  and  evil  so  full  of  subtlety.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  in  some  mysterious  way  their 
lives  had  been  his  own. 

The  hero  of  the  wonderful  novel  that  had  so 
influenced  his  life  had  himself  known  this  curious 
fancy.  In  the  seventh  chapter  he  tells  how, 
crowned  with  laurel,  lest  lightning  might  strike 
him,  he  had  sat,  as  Tiberius,  in  a  garden  at  Capri, 
reading  the  shameful  books  of  Elephantis,  while 
dwarfs  and  peacocks  strutted  round  him  and  the 
flute-player  mocked  the  swinger  of  the  censer  ; 
and,  as  Caligula,  had  caroused  with  the  green- 
shirted  jockeys  in  their  stables,  and  supped  in 
an  ivory  manger  with  a  jewel-frontleted  horse ; 
and,  as  Pomitian,  had  wandered  through  a  corridor 
215 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

lined  with  marble  mirrors,  looking  round  with 
haggard  eyes  for  the  reflection  of  the  dagger  that 
was  to  end  his  days,  and  sick  with  that  ennui,  that 
terrible  tcedmvi  vitcBy  that  comes  on  those  to  whom 
life  denies  nothing  ;  and  had  peered  through  a 
clear  emerald  at  the  red  shambles  of  the  Circus,  and 
then,  in  a  litter  of  pearl  and  purple  drawn  by 
silver-shod  mules,  been  carried  through  the  Street 
of  Pomegranates  to  a  House  of  Gold,  and  heard 
men  cry  on  Nero  Caesar  as  he  passed  by  ;  and,  as 
Elagabalus,  had  painted  his  face  with  colours,  and 
plied  the  distaff  among  the  women,  and  brought 
the  Moon  from  Carthage,  and  given  her  in  mystic 
marriage  to  the  Sun. 

Over  and  over  again  Dorian  used  to  read  this 
fantastic  chapter,  and  the  two  chapters  imme- 
diately following,  in  which,  as  in  some  curious 
tapestries  or  cunningly- wrought  enamels,  were 
pictured  the  awful  and  beautiful  forms  of  those 
whom  Vice  and  Blood  and  Weariness  had  made 
monstrous  or  mad  :  Filippo,  Duke  of  Milan^  who 
slew  his  wife,  and  painted  her  lips  with  a  scarlet 
poison  that  her  lover  might  suck  death  from  the 
dead  thing  he  fondled  ;  Pietro  Barbi,  the  Venetian, 
known  as  Paul  the  Second,  who  sought  in  his  vanity 
to  assume  the  title  of  Formosus,  and  whose  tiara, 
valued  at  two  hundred  thousand  florins,  was  bought 
at  the  price  of  a  terrible  sin  ;  Gian  Maria  Visconti, 
who  used  hounds  to  chase  living  men,  and  whose 
murdered  body  was  covered  with  roses  by  a  harlot 

2l6 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

who  had  loved  him ;  the  Borgia  on  his  white 
horse,  with  Fratricide  riding  beside  him,  and  his 
mantle  stained  with  the  blood  of  Perotto ;  Pietro 
Riario,  the  young  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Florence, 
child  arM  minion  of  Sixtus  IV.,  whose  beauty  was 
equalled  only  by  his  debauchery,  and  who  received 
Leonora  of  Aragon  in  a  pavilion  of  white  and 
crimson  silk,  filled  with  nymphs  and  centaurs,  and 
gilded  a  boy  that  he  might  serve  at  the  feast  as 
Ganymede  or  Hylas  ;  Ezzelin,  whose  melancholy 
could  be  cured  only  by  the  spectacle  of  death,  and 
who  had  a  passion  for  red  blood,  as  other  men 
have  for  red  wine — the  son  of  the  Fiend,  as  was 
reported,  and  one  who  had  cheated  his  father  at 
dice  when  gambling  with  him  for  his  own  soul ; 
Giambattista  Cibo,  who  in  mockery  took  the  name 
of  Innocent,  and  into  whose  torpid  veins  the  blood 
of  three  lads  was  infused  by  a  Jewish  doctor ; 
Sigismondo  Malatesta,  the  lover  of  Isotta,  and  the 
lord  of  Rimini,  whose  effigy  was  burned  at  Rome 
as  the  enemy  of  God  and  man,  who  strangled 
Polyssena  with  a  napkin,  and  gave  poison  to 
Ginevra  d'Este  in  a  cup  of  emerald,  and  in  honour 
of  a  shameful  passion  built  a  pagan  church  for 
Christian  w^orship  ;  Charles  VI.,  who  had  so  wildly 
adored  his  brother's  wife  that  a  leper  had  warned 
him  of  the  insanity  that  was  coming  on  him,  and 
who,  when  his  brain  had  sickened  and  grown 
strange,  could  only  be  soothed  by  Saracen  cards 
painted  with  the  images  of  Love  and  Death  and 
217 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY, 

Madness  ;  and,  in  his  trimmed  jerkin  and  jewelled 
cap  and  acanthus-like  curls,  Grifonetto  Baglioni, 
who  slew  Astorre  with  his  bride,  and  Simonetto 
with  his  page,  and  whose  comeliness  was  such  that, 
as  he  lay  dying  in  the  yellow  piazza  of  Perugia, 
those  who  had  hated  him  could  not  choose  but 
weep,  and  Atalanta,  who  had  cursed  him,  blessed 
hinr. 

There  was  a  horrible  fascination  in  them  all. 
He  saw  them  at  night,  and  they  troubled  his 
imagination  in  the  day.  The  Renaissance  knew 
of  strange  manners  of  poisoning — poisoning  by 
a  helmet  and  a  lighted  torch,  by  an  embroidered 
glove  and  a  jewelled  fan,  by  a  gilded  pomander 
and  by  an  amber  chain.  Dorian  Gray  had  been 
poisoned  by  a  book.  There  were  moments  when 
he  looked  on  evil  simply  as  a  mode  through 
which  he  could  realize  his  conception  of  the 
beautiful. 


2l8 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  was  on  the  ninth  of  November,  the  eve  of  his 
own    thirty-eighth   birthday,  as   he  often  re- 
membered afterwards. 

He  was  walking  home  about  eleven  o'clock  from 
Lord  Henry's,  where  he  had  been  dining,  and  was 
wrapped  in  heavy  furs,  as  the  night  was  cold 
and  (oggy.  At  the  corner  of  Grosvenor  Square 
and  South  Audley  Street  a  man  passed  him  in 
the  mist,  walking  very  fast,  and  with  the  collar 
of  his  grey  ulster  turned  up.  He  had  a  bag  in  his 
hand.  Dorian  recognized  him.  It  was  Basil 
Hall  ward.  A  strange  sense  of  fear,  for  which  he 
could  not  account,  came  over  him.  He  made  no 
sign  of  recognition,  and  went  on  quickly,  in  the 
direction  of  his  own  house. 

But  Hallward  had  seen  him.  Dorian  heard 
him  first  stopping  on  the  pavement  and  then 
hurrying  after  him.  In  a  few  moments  his  hand 
was  on  his  arm. 

"  Dorian !      What    an    extraordinary    piece   of 
luck !     I  have  been  waiting  for  you  in  your  library 
ever  since  nine  o'clock.     Finally  I  took  pity  on 
219 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K. 

your  tired  servant,  and  told  him  to  go  to  bed,  as  he 
let  me  out.  I  am  off  to  Paris  by  the  midnight  train, 
and  I  particularly  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  left.  I 
thought  it  was  you,  or  rather  your  fur  coat,  as  you 
passed  me.  But  I  wasn't  quite  sure.  Didn't  you 
recognize  me  ?  " 

"  In  this  fog,  my  dear  Basil  ?  Why,  I  can't  even 
recognize  Grosvenor  Square.  I  believe  my  house 
is  somewhere  about  here,  but  I  don't  feel  at  all 
certain  about  it.  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away, 
as  I  have  not  seen  you  for  ages.  But  I  suppose 
you  will  be  back  soon  ?  " 

"  No  :  I  am  going  to  be  out  of  England  for  six 
months.  I  intend  to  take  a  studio  in  Paris,  and 
shut  myself  up  till  I  have  finished  a  great  picture 
I  have  in  my  head.  However,  it  wasn't  about 
myself  I  wanted  to  talk.  Here  we  are  at  your 
door.  Let  me  come  in  for  a  moment.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  charmed.  But  won't  you  miss  your 
train  ?  "  said  Dorian  Gray,  languidly,  as  he  passed 
up  the  steps  and  opened  the  door  with  his  latch- 
key. 

The  lamp-light  struggled  out  through  the  fog, 
and  Hallward  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  have  heaps 
of  time,"  he  answered.  "The  train  doesn't  go  till 
twelve-fifteen,  and  it  is  only  just  eleven.  In  fact, 
I  was  on  my  way  to  the  club  to  look  for  you, 
when  I  met  you.  You  see,  I  sha'n't  have  any  delay 
about  luggage,  as  I  have  sent  on  my  heavy  things. 

320 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

All  I  have  with  me  is  in  this  bag,  and  I  can  easily 
get  to  Victoria  in  twenty  minutes." 

Dorian  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  "  What  a  way 
for  a  fashionable  painter  to  travel !  A  Gladstone 
bag,  and  an  ulster !  Come  in,  or  the  fog  will  get 
into  the  house.  And  mind  you  don't  talk  about 
anything  serious.  Nothing  is  serious  nowadays. 
At  least  nothing  should  be." 

Hallward  shook  his  head,  as  he  entered,  and 
followed  Dorian  into  the  library.  There  was  a 
bright  wood  fire  blazing  in  the  large  open  hearth. 
The  lamps  were  lit,  and  an  open  Dutch  silver 
spirit-case  stood,  with  some  siphons  of  soda-water 
and  large  cut-glass  tumblers,  on  a  little  marqueterie 
table. 

"  You  see  your  servant  made  me  quite  at  home, 
Dorian.  He  gave  me  everything  I  wanted,  in- 
cluding your  best  gold-tipped  cigarettes.  He  is  a 
most  hospitable  creature.  I  like  him  much  better 
than  the  Frenchman  you  used  to  have.  What 
has  become  of  the  Frenchman,  by  the  bye  ?  " 

Dorian  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "  I  believe  he 
married  Lady  Radley's  maid,  and  has  established 
her  in  Paris  as  an  English  dressmaker.  Angloinanie 
is  very  fashionable  over  there  now,  I  hear.  It 
seems  silly  of  the  French,  doesn't  \V.  But — do 
you  know  ? — he  was  not  at  all  a  bad  servant  I 
never  liked  him,  but  I  had  nothing  to  complain 
about.  One  often  imagines  things  that  are  quite 
absurd.     He  was  really  very  devoted  to   me,  and 

221 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

seemed  quite  sorry  when  he  went  away.  Have 
another  brandy-and-soda  ?  Or  would  you  like 
hock-and-seltzer  ?  I  always  take  hock-and-seltzer 
myself.  There  is  sure  to  be  some  in  the  next 
room." 

"  Thanks,  I  won't  have  anything  more,"  said  the 
painter,  taking  his  cap  and  coat  off,  and  throwing 
them  on  the  bag  that  he  had  placed  in  the  corner. 
"  And  now,  my  dear  fellow,  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
seriously.  Don't  frown  like  that.  You  make  it 
so  much  more  difficult  for  me." 

"  What  is  it  all  about  1 "  cried  Dorian,  in  his 
petulant  way,  flinging  himself  down  on  the  sofa. 
"  I  hope  it  is  not  about  myself.  I  am  tired  of 
myself  to-night.  I  should  like  to  be  somebody 
else."       ' 

"  It  is  about  yourself,"  answered  Hallward,  in  his 
grave,  deep  voice,  "  and  I  must  say  it  to  you.  I 
shall  only  keep  you  half  an  hour." 

Dorian  sighed,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "  Half  an 
hour  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  It  is  not  much  to  ask  of  you,  Dorian,  and  it 
is  entirely  for  your  own  sake  that  I  am  speaking. 
I  think  it  right  that  you  should  know  that  the 
most  dreadful  things  are  being  said  against  you  in 
London." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about  them.  I 
love  scandals  about  other  people,  but  scandals  about 
myself  don't  interest  me.  They  have  not  got  the 
charm  of  novelty." 

222 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

"  They  must  interest  you,  Dorian.  Every  gentle- 
man is  interested  in  his  good  name.  You  don't 
want  people  to  talk  of  you  as  something  vile  and 
degraded.  Of  course  you  have  your  position,  and 
your  wealth,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  posi- 
tion and  wealth  are  not  everything.  Mind  you,  I 
don't  believe  these  rumours  at  all.  At  least,  I 
can't  believe  them  when  I  see  you.  Sin  is  a  thing 
that  writes  itself  across  a  man's  face.  It  cannot  be 
concealed.  People  talk  sometimes  of  secret  vices. 
There  are  no  such  things.  If  a  wretched  man  has 
a  vice,  it  shows  itself  in  the  lines  of  his  mouth,  the 
droop  of  his  eyelids,  the  moulding  of  his  hands 
even.  Somebody — I  won't  mention  his  name,  but 
you  know  him — came  to  me  last  year  to  have  his 
portrait  done.  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  and 
had  never  heard  anything  about  him  at  the  time, 
though  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  since.  He  offered 
an  extravagant  price.  I  refused  him.  There  was 
something  in  the  shape  of  his  fingers  that  I  hated. 
I  know  now  that  I  w^as  quite  right  in  what  I 
fancied  about  him.  His  life  is  dreadful.  But  you, 
Dorian,  with  your  pure,  bright,  innocent  face,  and 
your  marvellous  untroubled  youth — I  can't  believe 
anything  against  you.  And  yet  I  see  you  very 
seldom,  and  you  never  come  down  to  the  studio 
now,  and  when  I  am  away  from  you,  and  I  hear 
all  these  hideous  things  that  people  are  whispering 
about  you,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Why  is  it, 
Dorian,  that  a  man  like  the  Duke  of  Berwick 
223 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

leaves  the  room  of  a  club  when  you  enter  it  ? 
Why  is  it  that  so  many  gentlemen  in  London  will 
neither  go  to  your  house  nor  invite  you  to  theirs  ? 
You  used  to  be  a  friend  of  Lord  Staveley.  I  met 
him  at  dinner  last  week.  Your  name  happened  to 
come  up  in  conversation,  in  connection  with  the 
miniatures  you  have  lent  to  the  exhibition  at  the 
Dudley.  Staveley  curled  his  lip,  and  said  that 
you  might  have  the  most  artistic  tastes,  but  that 
you  were  a  man  whom  no  pure-minded  girl  should 
be  allowed  to  know,  and  whom  no  chaste  woman 
should  sit  in  the  same  room  with.  I  reminded 
him  that  I  was  a  friend  of  yours,  and  asked  him 
what  he  meant.  He  told  me.  He  told  me  right 
out  before  everybody.  It  was  horrible !  Why  is 
your  friendship  so  fatal  to  young  men  ?  There 
was  that  wretched  boy  in  the  Guards  who  com- 
mitted suicide.  You  were  his  great  friend.  There 
was  Sir  Henry  Ashton,  who  had  to  leave  England, 
with  a  tarnished  name.  You  and  he  were  insepa- 
rable. What  about  Adrian  Singleton,  and  his 
dreadful  end  ?  What  about  Lord  Kent's  only  son, 
and  his  career  ?  I  met  his  father  yesterday  in  St. 
James's  Street.  He  seemed  broken  with  shame  and 
sorrow.  What  about  the  young  Duke  of  Perth  ? 
What  sort  of  life  has  he  got  now  ?  What  gentle- 
man would  associate  with  him  ?  " 

"  Stop,  Basil.     You  are  talking  about  things  of 
which  you  know  nothing,"  said  Dorian  Gray,  biting 
his  lip,  and  with  a  note  of  infinite  contempt  in  his 
224 


THE  PICTURE  Of  dorian  GRA  V. 

voice.  "  You  ask  me  why  Berwick  leaves  a  rooiri 
when  I  enter  it.  It  is  because  I  know  everything 
about  his  Hfe,  not  because  he  know^s  anything  about 
mine.  With  such  blood  as  he  has  in  his  veins,  how 
could  his  record  be  clean  ?  You  ask  me  about 
Henry  Ashton  and  young  Perth.  Did  I  teach  the 
one  his  vices,  and  the  other  his  debauchery  ?  If 
Kent's  silly  son  takes  his  wife  from  the  streets, 
what  is  that  to  me?  If  Adrian  Singleton  writes 
his  friend's  name  across  a  bill,  am  I  his  keeper  ? 
I  know  how  people  chatter  in  England.  The^ 
middle  classes  air  their  moral  prejudices  over  their 
gross  dinner-tables,  and  whisper  about  what  they 
call  the  profligacies  of  their  betters  in  order  to  try 
and  pretend  that  they  are  in  smart  society,  and  on 
intimate  terms  with  the  people  they  slander.  In 
this  country  it  is  enough  for  a  man  to  have  dis- 
tinction and  brains  for  every  common  tongue  to 
wag  against  him.  And  what  sort  of  lives  do  these 
people,  who  pose  as  being  moral,  lead  themselves  ? 
My  dear  fellow,  you  forget  that  we  are  in  the 
native  land  of  the  hypocrite." 

"  Dorian,"  cried  Hallward,  "  that  is  not  the 
question.  England  is  bad  enough  I  know,  and 
English  society  is  all  wrong.  That  is  the  reason 
why  I  want  you  to  be  fine.  You  have  not  been 
fine.  One  has  a  right  to  judge  of  a  man  by  the 
effect  he  has  over  his  friends.  Yours  seem  to  lose 
all  sense  of  honour,  of  goodness,  of  purity.  You 
have  filled  them  with  a  madness  for  pleasure. 
225  Q 


fHE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  CRA  V. 

They  have  gone  down  into  the  depths.  You  led 
them  there.  Yes  :  you  led  them  there,  and  yet 
you  can  smile,  as  you  are  smiling  now.  And  there 
is  worse  behind.  I  know  you  and  Harry  are  in- 
separable. Surely  for  that  reason,  if  for  none 
other,  you  should  not  have  made  his  sister's  name 
a  by-word.'* 

"  Take  care,  Basil.  You  go  too  far." 
"  I  must  speak,  and  you  must  listen.  You  shall 
listen.  When  you  met  Lady  Gwendolen,  not  a 
breath  of  scandal  had  ever  touched  her.  Is  there 
a  single  decent  woman  in  London  now  who  would 
drive  with  her  in  the  Park  ?  Why,  even  her  chil- 
dren are  not  allowed  to  live  with  her.  Then  there 
are  other  stories — stories  that  you  have  been  seen 
creeping  at  dawn  out  of  dreadful  houses  and  slink- 
ing in  disguise  into  the  foulest  dens  in  London. 
Are  they  true  ?  Can  they  be  true  ?  When  I  first 
heard  them,  I  laughed.  I  hear  them  now,  and  they 
make  me  shudder.  What  about  your  country 
house,  and  the  life  that  is  led  there }  Dorian,  you 
don't  know  what  is  said  about  you.  I  won't  tell 
you  that  I  don't  want  to  preach  to  you.  I  re- 
member Harry  saying  once  that  every  man  who 
turned  himself  into  an  amateur  curate  for  the 
moment  always  began  by  saying  that,  and  then 
proceeded  to  break  his  word.  I  do  want  to  preach 
to  you.  I  want  you  to  lead  such  a  life  as  will 
make  the  world  respect  you.  I  want  you  to  have 
a  clean  name  and  a  fair  record.  I  want  you  to 
226 


THE  PICTURE  OT'  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

get  rid  of  the  dreadful  people  you  associate  with. 
Don't  shrug  your  shoulders  like  that.  Don't  be 
so  indifferent.  You  have  a  wonderful  influence. 
Let  it  be  for  good,  not  for  evil.  They  say  that 
you  corrupt  every  one  with  whom  you  become  inti- 
mate, and  that  it  is  quite  sufficient  for  you  to  enter 
a  house,  for  shame  of  some  kind  to  follow  after. 
I  don't  know  whether  it  is  so  or  not.  How 
should  \  know?  But  it  is  said  of  you.  I  am  told 
things  that  it  seems  impossible  to  doubt.  Lord 
Gloucester  was  one  of  my  greatest  friends  at 
Oxford.  He  showed  me  a  letter  that  his  wife  had 
written  to  him  when  she  was  dying  alone  in  her 
villa  at  Mentone.  Your  name  was  implicated  in 
the  most  terrible  confession  I  ever  read.  I  told  him 
that  it  was  absurd — that  I  knew  you  thoroughly, 
and  that  you  were  incapable  of  anything  of  the 
kind.  Know  you  }  I  wonder  do  I  know  you  ? 
Before  I  could  answer  that,  I  should  have  to  see 
your  soul." 

"  To  see  my  soul ! "  muttered  Dorian  Gray, 
starting  up  from  the  sofa  and  turning  almost 
white  from  fear. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hallward,  gravely,  and  with 
deep-toned  sorrow  in  his  voice — "  to  see  your  soul. 
But  only  God  can  do  that." 

A  bitter  laugh  of  mockery  broke  from  the  lips 

of  the  younger  man.     "You  shall  see  it  yourself, 

to-night ! "  he  cried,  seizing  a  lamp  from  the  table. 

"  Come  :  it  is  your  own  handiwork.    Why  shouldn't 

227 


The  ptCTUkE  of  dorian  gra  v. 

you  look  at  it  ?  You  can  tell  the  world  all  about 
it  afterwards,  if  you  choose.  Nobody  would  believe 
you.  If  they  did  believe  you,  they  would  like  me 
all  the  better  for  it.  I  know  the  age  better  than 
you  do,  though  you  will  prate  about  it  so  tediously. 
Come,  I  tell  you.  You  have  chattered  enough 
about  corruption.  Now  you  shall  look  on  it  face 
to  face." 

There  was  the  madness  of  pride  in  every  word 
he  uttered.  He  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  ground 
in  his  boyish  insolent  manner.  He  felt  a  terrible 
joy  at  the  thought  that  some  one  else  was  to  share 
his  secret,  and  that  the  man  who  had  painted  the 
portrait  that  was  the  origin  of  all  his  shame  was  to 
be  burdened  for  the  rest  of  his  life  with  the  hideous 
memory  of  what  he  had  done. 

"Yes,"  he  contined,  coming  closer  to  him,  and 
looking  steadfastly  into  his  stern  eyes,  "  I  shall  show 
you  my  soul.  You  shall  see  the  thing  that  you 
fancy  only  God  can  see." 

Hallward  started  back.  "  This  is  blasphemy, 
Dorian ! "  he  cried.  "  You  must  not  say  things 
like  that.  They  are  horrible,  and  they  don't  mean 
anything." 

"You  think  so?  "     He  laughed  again. 

"  I  know  so.  As  for  what  I  said  to  you  to-night, 
1  said  it  for  your  good.  You  know  I  have  been 
always  a  staunch  friend  to  you." 

"  Don't  touch  me.    Finish  what  you  have  to  say." 

A  twisted  flash  of  pain  shot  across  the  painter's 
228 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

face.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  a  wild  feeling 
of  pity  came  over  him.  After  all,  what  right  had 
he  to  pry  into  the  life  of  Dorian  Gray  ?  If  he  had 
done  a  tithe  of  what  was  rumoured  about  him,  how 
much  he  must  have  suffered  !  Then  he  straightened 
himself  up,  and  walked  over  to  the  fireplace,  and 
stood  there,  looking  at  the  burning  logs  with  their 
frost-like  ashes  and  their  throbbing  cores  of  flame. 

"  I  am  waiting,  Basil,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a 
hard,  clear  voice. 

He  turned  round.  "  What  I  have  to  say  is  this," 
he  cried.  "  You  must  give  me  some  answer  to  these 
horrible  charges  that  are  made  against  you.  If  you 
tell  me  that  they  are  absolutely  untrue  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  I  shall  believe  you.  Deny  them,  Dorian, 
deny  them !  Can't  you  see  what  I  am  going  through  ? 
My  God !  don't  tell  me  that  you  are  bad,  and  cor- 
rupt, and  shameful." 

Dorian  Gray  smiled.  There  was  a  curl  of  con- 
tempt in  his  lips.  •  "  Come  upstairs,  Basil,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  I  keep  a  diary  of  my  life  from  day  to 
day,  and  it  never  leaves  the  room  in  which  it  is 
written.    I  shall  show  it  to  you  if  you  come  with  me." 

"  I  shall  come  with  you,  Dorian,  if  you  wish  it. 
I  see  I  have  missed  my  train.  That  makes  no 
matter.  I  can  go  to-morrow.  But  don't  ask  me 
to  read  anything  to-night.  All  I  want  is  a  plain 
answer  to  my  question." 

"That  shall  be  given  to  you  upstairs.     I  could 
not  give  it  here.     You  will  not  have  to  read  long." 
229 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HE  passed  out  of  the  room,  and  began  the 
ascent,  Basil  Hallward  following  close  be- 
hind. They  walked  softly,  as  men  do  instinctively 
at  night.  The  lamp  cast  fantastic  shadows  on  the 
wall  and  staircase.  A  rising  wind  made  some  of 
the  windows  rattle. 

When  they  reached  the  top  landing,  Dorian  set 
the  lamp  down  on  the  floor,  and  taking  out  the 
key  turned  it  in  the  lock.  "  You  insist  on  know- 
ing, Basil  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes." 

"  I  am  delighted,"  he  answered,  smiling.  Then 
he  added,  somewhat  harshly,  "  You  are  the  one 
man  in  the  world  who  is  entitled  to  know  every- 
thing about  me.  You  have  had  more  to  do  with 
my  life  than  you  think  :  "  and,  taking  up  the  lamp, 
he  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  A  cold  current 
of  air  passed  them,  and  the  light  shot  up  for  a 
moment  in  a  flame  of  murky  orange.  He  shuddered. 
"  Shut  the  door  behind  you,"  he  whispered,  as  he 
placed  the  lamp  on  the  table. 

Hallward  glanced  round  him,  with  a  puzzled 
230 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

expression.  The  room  looked  as  if  it  had  not 
been  hVed  in  for  years.  A  faded  Flemish  tapestry, 
a  curtained  picture,  an  old  Italian  cassone,  and  an 
almost  empty  bookcase — that  was  all  that  it  seemed 
to  contain,  besides  a  chair  and  a  table.  As  Dorian 
Gray  was  lighting  a  half-burned  candle  that  was 
standing  on  the  mantelshelf,  he  saw  that  the  whole 
place  was  covered  with  dust,  and  that  the  carpet 
was  in  holes.  A  mouse  ran  scuffling  behind  the 
wainscoting.     There  was  a  damp  odour  of  mildew. 

"  So  you  think  that  it  is  only  God  who  sees  the 
soul,  Basil  }  Draw  that  curtain  back,  and  you  will 
see  mine." 

The  voice  that  spoke  was  cold  and  cruel.  "  You 
are  mad,  Dorian,  or  playing  a  part,"  muttered 
Hallward,  frowning. 

"  You  won't  ?  Then  I  must  do  it  myself,"  said 
the  young  man  ;  and  he  tore  the  curtain  from  its 
rod,  and  flung  it  on  the  ground. 

An  exclamation  of  horror  broke  from  the  painter's 
lips  as  he  saw  in  the  dim  light  the  hideous  face  on 
the  canvas  grinning  at  him.  There  was  something 
in  its  expression  that  filled  him  with  disgust  and 
loathing.  Good  heavens  !  it  was  Dorian  Gray's  own 
face  that  he  was  looking  at !  The  horror,  what- 
ever it  was,  had  not  yet  entirely  spoiled  that  mar- 
vellous beauty.  There  was  still  some  gold  in  the 
thinning  hair  and  some  scarlet  on  the  sensual 
rnouth.  The  sodden  eyes  had  kept  something  of 
the  loveliness  of  their  blue,  the  x\o\Aq  cyrves  had  not 
23; 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

yet  completely  passed  away  from  chiselled  nostrils 
and  from  plastic  throat.  Yes,  it  was  Dorian  him- 
self. But  who  had  done  it?  He  seemed  to  rccosr- 
nize  his  own  brush-w^ork,  and  the  frame  was  his 
own  design.  The  idea  was  monstrous,  yet  he  felt 
afraid.  He  seized  the  lighted  candle,  and  held  it 
to  the  picture.  In  the  left-hand  corner  was  his 
own  name,  traced  in  long  letters  of  bright  vermilion. 
It  was  some  foul  parody,  some  infamous,  ignoble 
satire.  He  had  never  done  that.  Still,  it  was  his 
own  picture.  He  knew  it,  and  he  felt  as  if  his 
blood  had  changed  in  a  moment  from  fire  to  sluggish 
ice.  His  own  picture!  What  did  it  mean.?  Why 
had  it  altered  ?  He  turned,  and  looked  at  Dorian 
Gray  with  the  eyes  of  a  sick  man.  His  mouth 
twitched,  and  his  parched  tongue  seemed  unable 
to  articulate.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head.    It  was  dank  with  clammy  sweat. 

The  young  man  was  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
.shelf,  watching  him  with  that  strange  expression 
that  one  sees  on  the  faces  of  those  who  are  absorbed 
in  a  play  when  some  great  artist  is  acting.  There 
was  neither  real  sorrow  in  it  nor  real  joy.  There 
was  simply  the  passion  of  the  spectator,  with  per- 
haps a  flicker  of  triumph  in  his  eyes.  He  had 
taken  the  flower  out  of  his  coat,  and  was  smelling 
it,  or  pretending  to  do  so. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  cried  Hallward,  at  last. 
His  own  voice  sounded  shrill  and  curious  in  his  ears. 

"  Years  ago,  when   I   was  a  boy,"  said  Dorian 
232 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Gray,  crushing  the  flower  in  his  hand,  "you  met 
me,  flattered  me,  and  taught  me  to  be  vain  of  my 
good  looks.  One  day  you  introduced  me  to  a 
friend  of  yours,  who  explained  to  me  the  wonder 
of  youth,  and  you  finished  a  portrait  of  me  that 
revealed  to  me  the  wonder  of  beauty.  In  a  mad 
moment,  that,  even  now,  I  don't  know  whether  I 
regret  or  not,  I  made  a  wish,  perhaps  you  would 
call  it  a  prayer  .  .  ." 

"  I  remember  it  !  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  it ! 
No  !  the  thing  is  impossible.  The  room  is  damp! 
Mildew  has  got  into  the  canvas.  The  paints  I 
used  had  some  wretched  mineral  poison  in  them. 
I  tell  you  the  thing  is  impossible." 

"Ah,  what  is  impossible  ?  "  murmured  the  young 
man,  going  over  to  the  window,  and  leaning  his 
forehead  against  the  cold,  mist-stained  glass. 

"  You  told  me  you  had  destroyed  it." 

"  I  was  wrong.     It  has  destroyed  me." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  my  picture." 

"  Can't  you  see  your  ideal  in  it  ?  "  said  Dorian, 
bitterly. 

"  My  ideal,  as  you  call  it  ..." 

"  As  you  called  it" 

"  There  was  nothing  evil  in  it,  nothing  shameful. 
You  were  to  me  such  an  ideal  as  I  shall  never  meet 
again.     This  is  the  face  of  a  satyr." 

"  It  is  the  face  of  my  soul." 

"  Christ !  what  a  thing  I  must  have  worshipped  ! 
It  has  the  eyes  of  a  devil." 
233 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

"  Each  of  us  has  Heaven  and  Hell  in  him, 
Basil,"  cried  Dorian,  with  a  wild  gesture  of 
despair. 

Hallward  turned  again  to  the  portrait,  and  gazed 
at  it.  "  My  God  !  if  it  is  true,''  he  exclaimed,  "  and 
this  is  what  you  have  done  with  your  life,  why,  you 
must  be  worse  even  than  those  who  talk  against 
you  fancy  you  to  be  !  "  He  held  the  light  up  again 
to  the  canvas,  and  examined  it.  The  surface 
seemed  to  be  quite  undisturbed,  and  as  he  had  left 
it.  It  was  from  within,  apparently,  that  the  foul- 
ness and  horror  had  come.  Through  some  strange 
quickening  of  inner  life  the  leprosies  of  sin  were 
slowly  eating  the  thing  away.  The  rotting  of  a 
corpse  in  a  watery  grave  was  not  so  fearful. 

His  hand .  shook,  and  the  candle  fell  from  its 
socket  on  the  floor,  and  lay  there  sputtering.  He 
placed  his  foot  on  it  and  put  it  out.  Then  he  flung 
himself  into  the  ricketty  chair  that  was  standing  by 
the  table  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Good  God,  Dorian,  what  a  lesson  !  what  an 
awful  lesson  ! "  There  was  no  answer,  but  he 
could  hear  the  young  man  sobbing  at  the  window. 
"  Pray,  Dorian,  pray,"  he  murmured.  "  What  is 
it  that  one  was  taught  to  say  in  one's  boyhood  ? 
*  Lead  us  not  into  temptation.  Forgive  us  our  sins. 
Wash  away  our  iniquities.'  Let  us  say  that  together. 
The  prayer  of  your  pride  has  been  answered.  The 
prayer  of  your  repentance  will  be  answered  also. 
I  worshipped  you  too  much.  I  am  punished  for  it. 
234 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

You  worshipped  yourself  too  much.  We  are  both 
punished." 

Dorian  Gray  turned  slowly  around,  and  looked 
at  him  with  tear-dimmed  eyes.  "  It  is  too  late, 
Basil,"  he  faltered. 

"  It  is  never  too  late,  Dorian.  Let  us  kneel  down 
and  try  if  we  cannot  remember  a  prayer.  Isn't 
there  a  verse  somewhere,  *  Though  your  sins  be  as 
scarlet,  yet  I  will  make  them  as  white  as  snow  '  ?  " 

"  Those  words  mean  nothing  to  me  now." 

"  Hush  !  don't  say  that.  You  have  done  enough 
evil  in  your  life.  My  God  !  don't  you  see  that 
accursed  thing  leering  at  us  ?  " 

Dorian  Gray  glanced  at  the  picture,  and  sud- 
denly an  uncontrollable  feeling  of  hatred  for  Basil 
Hallward  came  over  him,  as  though  it  had  been 
suggested  to  him  by  the  image  on  the  canvas, 
whispered  into  his  ear  by  those  grinning  lips.  The 
mad  passions  of  a  hunted  animal  stirred  within 
him.  and  he  loathed  the  man  who  was  seated  at 
the  table,  more  than  in  his  whole  life  he  had  ever 
loathed  anything.  He  glanced  wildly  around. 
Something  glimmered  on  the  top  of  the  painted 
chest  that  faced  him.  His  eye  fell  on  it.  He 
knew  what  it  was.  It  was  a  knife  that  he  had 
brought  up,  some  days  before,  to  cut  a  piece  of 
cord,  and  had  forgotten  to  take  away  with  him. 
He  moved  slowly  towards  it,  passing  Hallward  as 
he  did  so.  As  soon  as  he  got  behind  him,  he 
seized  it,  and  turned  round.  Hallward  stirred  in 
235 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

his  chair  as  if  he  was  going  to  rise.  He  rushed  at 
him,  and  dug  the  knife  into  the  great  vein  that  is 
behind  the  ear,  crushing  the  man's  head  down  on 
the  table,  and  stabbing  again  and  again. 

There  was  a  stifled  groan,  and  the  horrible  sound 
of  some  one  choking  with  blood.  Three  times  the 
outstretched  arms  shot  up  convulsively,  waving 
grotesque  stiff-fingered  hands  in  the  air.  He 
stabbed  him  twice  more,  but  the  man  did  not  move. 
Something  began  to  trickle  on  the  floor.  He 
waited  for  a  moment,  still  pressing  the  head 
down.  Then  he  threw  the  knife  on  the  table,  and 
listened. 

He  could  hear  nothing,  but  the  drip,  drip  on  the 
threadbare  carpet.  He  opened  the  door  and  went 
out  on  the  landing.  The  house  was  absolutely  quiet. 
No  one  was  about.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stood 
bending  ovej  the  balustrade,  and  peering  down  into 
the  black  seething  well  of  darkness.  Then  he 
took  out  the  key  and  returned  to  the  room,  locking 
himself  in  as  he  did  so. 

The  thing  was  still  seated  in  the  chair,  straining 
over  the  table  with  bowed  head,  and  humped  back, 
and  long  fantastic  arms.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
red  jagged  tear  in  the  neck,  and  the  clotted  black 
pool  that  was  slowly  widening  on  the  table,  one 
would  have  said  that  the  man  was  simply  asleep. 

How  quickly  it  had  all  been  done !  He  felt 
strangely  calm,  and,  walking  over  to  the  window, 
opened  it,  and  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.  The 
236 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

wind  had  blown  the  fog  away,  and  the  sky  was  like 
a  monstrous  peacock's  tail,  starred  with  myriads  of 
golden  eyes.  He  looked  down,  and  saw  the  police- 
man going  his  rounds  and  flashing  the  long  beam 
of  his  lantern  on  the  doors  of  the  silent  houses. 
The  crimson  spot  of  a  prowling  hansom  gleamed 
at  the  corner,  and  then  vanished.  A  woman  in  a 
fluttering  shawl  was  creeping  slowly  by  the  railings, 
staggering  as  she  went.  Now  and  then  she  stopped, 
and  peered  back.  Once,  she  began  to  sing  in  a 
hoarse  voice.  The  policeman  strolled  over  and 
said  something  to  her.  She  stumbled  away,  laugh- 
ing. A  bitter  blast  swept  across  the  Square.  The 
gas-lamps  flickered,  and  became  blue,  and  the 
leafless  trees  shook  their  black  iron  branches  to  and 
fro.  He  shivered,  and  went  back,  closing  the 
window  behind  him. 

Having  reached  the  door,  he  turned  the  key,  and 
opened  it.  He  did  not  even  glance  at  the  murdered 
man.  He  felt  that  the  secret  of  the  whole  thing 
was  not  to  realize  the  situation.  The  friend  who 
had  painted  the  fatal  portrait  to  which  all  his 
misery  had  been  due,  had  gone  out  of  his  life. 
That  was  enough. 

Then  he  remembered  the  lamp.  It  was  a  rather 
curious  one  of  Moorish  workmanship,  made  of  dull 
silver  inlaid  with  arabesques  of  burnished  steel, 
and  studded  with  coarse  turquoises.  Perhaps  it 
might  be  missed  by  his  servant,  and  questions 
would  be  asked.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then 
237 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

he  turned  back  and  took  it  from  the  table.  He 
could  not  help  seeing  the  dead  thing.  How  still  it 
was  !  How  horribly  white  the  long  hands  looked  ! 
It  was  like  a  dreadful  wax  image. 

Having  locked  the  door  behind  him,  he  crept 
quietly  downstairs.  The  woodwork  creaked,  and 
seemed  to  cry  out  as  if  in  pain.  He  stopped  several 
times,  and  waited.  No  :  everything  was  still.  It 
was  merely  the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps. 

When  he  reached  the  library,  he  saw  the  bag  and 
coat  in  the  corner.  They  must  be  hidden  away 
somewhere.  He  unlocked  a  secret  press  that  was 
in  the  wainscoting,  a  press  in  which  he  kept  his  own 
curious  disguises,  and  put  them  into  it.  He  could 
easily  burn  them  afterwards.  Then  he  pulled  out 
his  watch.     It  was  twenty  minutes  to  two. 

He  sat  down,  and  began  to  think.  Every  year — 
every  month,  almost  —  men  were  strangled  in 
England  for  what  he  had  done.  There  had  been 
a  madness  of  murder  in  the  air.  Some  red  star 
had  come  too  close  to  the  earth.  .  .  .  And  yet  what 
evidence  was  there  against  him  }  Basil  Hallward 
had  left  the  house  at  eleven.  No  one  had  seen  him 
come  in  again.  Most  of  the  servants  were  at  Selby 
Royal.  His  valet  had  gone  to  bed.  .  .  .  Paris! 
Yes.  It  was  to  Paris  that  Basil  had  gone,  and  by 
the  midnight  train,  as  he  had  intended.  With  his 
curious  reserved  habits,  it  would  be  months  before 
any  suspicions  would  be  aroused.  Months  !  Every- 
thing could  be  destroyed  long  before  then. 
238 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  him.  He  put  on  his 
fur  coat  and  hat,  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  There 
he  paused,  hearing  the  slow  heavy  tread  of  the 
policeman  on  the  pavement  outside,  and  seeing  the 
flash  of  the  bull's-eye  reflected  in  the  window.  He 
waited,  and  held  his  breath. 

i\fter  a  few  moments  he  drew  back  the  latch, 
and  slipped  out,  shutting  the  door  very  gently 
behind  him.  Then  he  began  ringing  the  bell.  In 
about  five  minutes  his  valet  appeared,  half  dressed, 
and  looking  very  drowsy. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  had  to  wake  you  up, 
Francis,"  he  said,  stepping  in  ;  *'  but  I  had  for- 
gotten my  latch-key.     What  time  it  it }  " 

"  Ten  minutes  past  two,  sir,"  answered  the  man, 
looking  at  the  clock  and  blinking. 

"Ten  minutes  past  two?  How  horribly  late! 
You  must  wake  me  at  nine  to-morrow.  I  have 
some  work  to  do." 

"  All  right,  sir." 

"  Did  any  one  call  this  evening  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hallward,  sir.  He  stayed  here  till  eleven, 
and  then  he  went  away  to  catch  his  train." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  sorry  I  didn't  see  him.  Did  he  leave 
any  message  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  except  that  he  would  write  to  you  from 
Paris,  if  he  did  not  find  you  at  the  club." 

"  That  will  do,  Francis.  Don't  forget  to  call  me 
at  nine  to-morrow." 


No,  sir." 


239 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

The  man  shambled  down  the  passage  in  his 
slippers. 

Dorian  Gray  threw  his  hat  and  coat  upon  the 
table,  and  passed  into  the  library.  For  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
biting  his  lip,  and  thinking.  Then  he  took  down 
the  Blue  Book  from  one  of  the  shelves,  and  began 
to  turn  over  the  leaves.  "Alan  Campbell,  152, 
Hertford  Street,  Mayfair."  Yes ;  that  was  the 
man  he  wanted. 


240 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AT  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  his  servant 
came  in  with  a  cup  of  chocolate  on  a  tray, 
and  opened  the  shutters.  Dorian  was  sleeping 
quite  peacefully,  lying  on  his  right  side,  with  one 
hand  underneath  his  cheek.  He  looked  like  a  boy 
who  had  been  tired  out  with  play,  or  study. 

The  man  had  to  touch  him  twice  on  the  shoulder 
before  he  woke,  and  as  he  opened  his  eyes  a  faint 
smile  passed  across  his  lips,  as  though  he  had  been 
lost  in  some  delightful  dream.  Yet  he  had  not 
dreamed  at  all.  His  night  had  been  untroubled 
by  any  images  of  pleasure  or  of  pain.  But  youth 
smiles  without  any  reason.  It  is  one  of  its  chiefest 
charms. 

He  turned  round,  and,  leaning  upon  his  elbow, 
began  to  sip  his  chocolate.  The  mellow  November 
sun  came  streaming  into  the  room.  The  sky  was 
bright,  and  there  was  a  genial  warmth  in  the  air. 
It  was  almost  like  a  morning  in  May. 

Gradually  the  events  of  the  preceding  night 
crept  with  silent  blood-stained  feet  into  his  brain, 
and  reconstructed  themselves  there  with  terrible 
241  R 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

distinctness.  He  winced  at  the  memory  of  all  that 
he  had  suffered,  and  for  a  moment  the  same 
curious  feeling  of  loathing  for  Basil  Hallward,  that 
had  made  him  kill  him  as  he  sat  in  the  chair,  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  grew  cold  with  passion.  The 
dead  man  was  still  sitting  there,  too,  and  in  the 
sunlight  now.  How  horrible  that  was  !  Such 
hideous  things  were  for  the  darkness,  not  for  the 
day. 

He  felt  that  if  he  brooded  on  what  he  had  gone 
through  he  would  sicken  or  grow  mad.  There 
were  sins  whose  fascination  was  more  in  the  memory 
than  in  the  doing  of  them,  strange  triumphs  that 
gratified  the  pride  more  than  the  passions,  and  gave 
to  the  intellect  a  quickened  sense  of  joy,  greater 
than  any  joy  they  brought,  or  could  ever  bring,  to 
the  senses.  But  this  was  not  one  of  them.  It  was 
a  thing  to  be  driven  out  of  the  mind,  to  be  drugged 
with  poppies,  to  be  strangled  lest  it  might  strangle 
one  itself. 

When  the  half-hour  struck,  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead,  and  then  got  up  hastily,  and 
dressed  himself  with  even  more  than  his  usual 
care,  giving  a  good  deal  of  attention  to  the  choice 
of  his  necktie  and  scarf-pin,  and  changing  his 
rings  more  than  once.  He  spent  a  long  time  also 
over  breakfast,  tasting  the  various  dishes,  talking  to 
his  valet  about  some  new  liveries  that  he  was 
thinking  of  getting  made  for  the  servants  at  Selby, 
and  going  through  his  correspondence.  At  some 
242 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

of  the  letters  he  smiled.  Three  of  them  bored 
him.  One  he  read  several  times  over,  and  then  tore 
up  with  a  slight  look  of  annoyance  in  his  face, 
"  That  awful  thing,  a  woman's  memory  !  "  as  Lord 
Henry  had  once  said. 

After  he  had  drunk  his  cup  of  black  coffee,  he 
wiped  his  lips  slowly  with  a  napkin,  motioned  to 
his  servant  to  wait,  and  going  over  to  the  table  sat 
down  and  wrote  two  letters.  One  he  put  in  his 
pocket,  the  other  he  handed  to  the  valet. 

"Take  this  round  to  152,  Hertford  Street, 
Francis,  and  if  Mr.  Campbell  is  out  of  town,  get 
his  address." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
began  sketching  upon  a  piece  of  paper,  drawing 
first  flowers,  and  bits  of  architecture,  and  then 
human  faces.  Suddenly  he  remarked  that  every 
face  that  he  drew  seemed  to  have  a  fantastic  like- 
ness to  Basil  Hallward.  He  frowned,  and,  getting 
up,  went  over  to  the  bookcase  and  took  out  a 
volume  at  hazard.  He  was  determined  that  he 
would  not  think  about  what  had  happened  until  it 
became  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  do  so. 

When  he  had  stretched  himself  on  the  sofa,  he 
looked  at  the  title-page  of  the  book.  It  was 
Gautier's  "  £maux  et  Camees,"  Charpentier's 
Japanese  -  paper  edition,  with  the  Jacquemart 
etching.  The  binding  was  of  citron-green  leather, 
with  a  design  of  gilt  trellis-work  and  dotted  pome- 
granates. It  had  been  given  to  him  by  Adrian 
243 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Singleton.  As  he  turned  over  the  pages  his  eye 
fell  on  the  poem  about  the  hand  of  Lacenaire,  the 
cold  yellow  hand  "  du  stipplicc  e^icore  inal  lavhl' 
with  its  downy  red  hairs  and  its  "  doigts  de  fanned 
He  glanced  at  his  own  white  taper  fingers,  shud- 
dering slightly  in  spite  of  himself,  and  passed  on, 
till  he  came  to  those  lovely  stanzas  upon  Venice  : — 

"  Sur  line  gamine  chroniatigue, 
Le  sein  de  perles  7'uisselant^ 
La  Venus  de  VAdriatique 

Sort  de  Veau  son  corps  rose  et  blanc. 

Les  domes,  sur  Vazur  des  ondes 
SuivaJtt  la  phrase  au  pur  cofttour, 

S  ^enflent  comme  des  gorges  7'ondes 
Que  soul^ve  un  soicpir  d^ amour. 

Lesquif  aborde  et  me  depose, 

Jetant  son  amarre  au  pi  Iter, 
Devant  une  faqade  rose, 

Sur  le  marbrc  d'un  escalierP  * 

How  exquisite  they  were  !  As  one  read  them, 
one  seemed  to  be  floating  down  the  green  water- 
ways of  the  pink  and  pearl  city,  seated  in  a  black 
gondola  with  silver  prow  and  trailing  curtains. 
The  mere  lines  looked  to  him  like  those  straight 
lines  of  turquoise-blue  that  follow  one  as  one 
pushes  out  to  the  Lido.  The  sudden  flashes  of 
colour  reminded  him  of  the  gleam  of  the  opal-and- 
iris-throated  birds  that  flutter  round  the  tall  honey- 
combed Campanile,  or  stalk,  with  such  stately 
244 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

grace,  through  the  dim,  dust-stained  arcades. 
Leaning  back  with  half-closed  eyes,  he  kept  saying 
over  and  over  to  himself: — 

"  Devant  une  facade  rose^ 
Stir  le  marbre  d^im  escalter" 

The  whole  of  Venice  was  in  those  two  lines.  He 
remembered  the  autumn  that  he  had  passed  there, 
and  a  wonderful  love  that  had  stirred  him  to  mad, 
delightful  follies.  There  was  romance  in  every 
place.  But  Venice,  like  Oxford,  had  kept  the 
background  for  romance,  and,  to  the  true  romantic, 
background  was  everything,  or  almost  everything. 
Basil  had  been  with  him  part  of  the  time,  and 
had  gone  wild  over  Tintoret  Poor  Basil !  what  a 
horrible  way  for  a  man  to  die  ! 

He  sighed,  and  took  up  the  volume  again,  and 
tried  to  forget.  He  read  of  the  swallows  that  fly 
in  and  out  of  the  little  cafe  at  Smyrna  where  the 
Hadjis  sit  counting  their  amber  beads  and  the 
turbaned  merchants  smoke  their  long  tasselled 
pipes  and  talk  gravely  to  each  other ;  he  read  of 
the  Obelisk  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  that  weeps 
tears  of  granite  in  its  lonely  sunless  exile,  and 
longs  to  be  back  by  the  hot  lotus-covered  Nile, 
where  there  are  Sphinxes,  and  rose -red  ibises,  and 
white  vultures  with  gilded  claws,  and  crocodiles, 
with  small  beryl  eyes,  that  crawl  over  the  green 
steaming  mud  ;  he  began  to  brood  over  those  verses 
which,  drawing  music  from  kiss- stained  marble,  tell 
245 


THE  P2C1URE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

of  that  curious  statue  that  Gautier  compares  to 
a  contralto  voice,  the  "  monstre  charmant "  that 
couches  in  the  porphyry-room  of  the  Louvre.  But 
after  a  time  the  book  fell  from  his  hand.  He  grew 
nervous,  and  a  horrible  fit  of  terror  came  over  him. 
What  if  Alan  Campbell  should  be  out  of  England  ? 
Days  would  elapse  before  he  could  come  back. 
Perhaps  he  might  refuse  to  come.  What  could  he 
do  then  ?     Every  moment  was  of  vital  importance. 

They  had  been  great  friends  once,  five  years  before 
— almost  inseparable,  indeed.  Then  the  intimacy 
had  come  suddenly  to  an  end.  When  they  met  in 
society  now,  it  was  only  Dorian  Gray  who  smiled  : 
Alan  Campbell  never  did. 

He  was  an  extremely  clever  young  man,  though 
he  had  no  real  appreciation  of  the  visible  arts,  and 
whatever  little  sense  of  the  beauty  of  poetry  he 
possessed  he  had  gained  entirely  from  Dorian.  His 
dominant  intellectual  passion  was  for  science.  At 
Cambridge  he  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time 
working  in  the  Laboratory,  and  had  taken  a  good 
class  in  the  Natural  Science  Tripos  of  his  year. 
Indeed,  he  was  still  devoted  to  the  study  of 
chemistry,  and  had  a  laboratory  of  his  own,  in 
which  he  used  to  shut  himself  up  all  day  long, 
greatly  to  the  annoyance  of  his  mother,  who  had 
set  her  heart  on  his  standing  for  Parliament  and 
had  a  vague  idea  that  a  chemist  was  a  person 
who  made  up  prescriptions.  He  was  an  excellent 
musician,  however,  as  well,  and  played  both  the 
246 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

violin  and  the  piano  better  than  most  amateurs. 
In  fact,  it  was  music  that  had  first  brought  him  and 
Dorian  Gray  together — music  and  that  indefinable 
attraction  that  Dorian  seemed  to  be  able  to  exercise 
whenever  he  wished,  and  indeed  exercised  often 
without  being  conscious  of  it.  They  had  met  at 
Lady  Berkshire's  the  night  that  Rubinstein  played 
there,  and  after  that  used  to  be  always  seen  together 
at  the  Opera,  and  wherever  good  music  was  going 
on.  For  eighteen  months  their  intimacy  lasted. 
Campbell  was  always  either  at  Selby  Royal  or  in 
Grosvenor  Square.  To  him,  as  to  many  others, 
Dorian  Gray  was  the  type  of  everything  that  is 
wonderful  and  fascinating  in  life.  Whether  or  not 
a  quarrel  had  taken  place  between  them  no  one 
ever  knew.  But  suddenly  people  remarked  that 
they  scarcely  spoke  when  they  met,  and  that  Camp- 
bell seemed  always  to  go  away  early  from  any 
party  at  which  Dorian  Gray  was  present.  He  had 
changed,  too — was  strangely  melancholy  at  times, 
appeared  almost  to  dislike  hearing  music,  and 
would  never  himself  play,  giving  as  his  excuse, 
when  he  was  called  upon,  that  he  was  so  absorbed 
in  science  that  he  had  no  time  left  in  which  to 
practise.  And  this  was  certainly  true.  Every  da> 
he  seemed  to  become  more  interested  in  biology, 
and  his  name  appeared  once  or  twice  in  some  of 
the  scientific  reviews,  in  connection  with  certain 
curious  experiments. 

This  was  the  man  Dorian  Gray  was  waiting  for. 
247 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY, 

Every  second  he  kept  glancing  at  the  clock.  As 
the  minutes  went  by  he  became  horribly  agitated. 
At  last  he  got  up,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room,  looking  like  a  beautiful  caged  thing. 
He  took  long  stealthy  strides.  His  hands  were 
curiously  cold. 

The  suspense  became  unbearable.  Time  seemed 
to  him  to  be  crawling  with  feet  of  lead,  while  he 
by  monstrous  winds  was  being  swept  towards  the 
jagged  edge  of  some  black  cleft  of  precipice.  He 
knew  what  was  waiting  for  him  there ;  saw  it 
indeed,  and,  shuddering,  crushed  with  dank  hands 
his  burning  lids  as  though  he  would  have  robbed 
the  very  brain  of  sight,  and  driven  the  eyeballs 
back  into  their  cave.  It  was  useless.  The  brain 
had  its  own  food  on  which  it  battened,  and  the 
imagination,  made  grotesque  by  terror,  twisted  and 
distorted  as  a  living  thing  by  pain,  danced  like 
some  foul  puppet  on  a  stand,  and  grinned  through 
moving  masks.  Then,  suddenly.  Time  stopped  for 
him.  Yes  :  that  blind,  slow-breathing  thing  crawled 
no  more,  and  horrible  thoughts,  Time  being  dead, 
raced  nimbly  on  in  front,  and  dragged  a  hideous 
future  from  its  grave,  and  showed  it  to  him.  He 
stared  at  it.     Its  very  horror  made  him  stone. 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  his  servant  entered. 
He  turned  glazed  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Mr.  Campbell,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

A  sigh  of  relief  broke  from  his  parched  lips,  and 
the  colour  came  back  to  his  cheeks. 
248 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"Ask  him  to  come  in  at  once,  Francis."  He 
felt  that  he  was  himself  again.  His  mood  of 
cowardice  had  passed  away. 

The  man  bowed,  and  retired.  In  a  few  moments 
Alan  Campbell  walked  in,  looking  very  stern  and 
rather  pale,  his  pallor  being  intensified  by  his  coal- 
black  hair  and  dark  eyebrows. 

"  Alan  !  this  is  kind  of  you.  I  thank  you  for 
coming." 

"  I  had  intended  never  to  enter  your  house  again. 
Gray.  But  you  said  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and 
death."  His  voice  was  hard  and  cold.  He  spoke 
with  slow  deliberation.  There  was  a  look  of  con- 
tempt in  the  steady  searching  gaze  that  he  turned 
on  Dorian.  He  kept  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  Astrakhan  coat,  and  seemed  not  to  have  noticed 
the  gesture  with  which  he  had  been  greeted. 

"  Yes  :  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  Alan,  and 
to  more  than  one  person.     Sit  down." 

Campbell  took  a  chair  by  the  table,  and  Dorian 
sat  opposite  to  him.  The  two  men's  eyes  met.  In 
Dorian's  there  was  infinite  pity.  He  knew  that 
what  he  was  going  to  do  was  dreadful. 

After  a  strained  moment  of  silence,  he  leaned 
across  and  said,  very  quietly,  but  watching  the 
effect  of  each  word  upon  the  face  of  him  he  had 
sent  for,  "  Alan,  in  a  locked  room  at  the  top  of  this 
house,  a  room  to  which  nobody  but  myself  has 
access,  a  dead  man  is  seated  at  a  table.  He  has 
been  dead  ten  hours  now.  Don't  stir,  and  don't 
249 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

look  at  me  like  that.  Who  the  man  is,  why  he 
died,  how  he  died,  are  matters  that  do  not  concern 
you.     What  you  have  to  do  is  this " 

"  Stop,  Gray.  I  don't  want  to  know  anything 
further.  Whether  what  you  have  told  me  is  true 
or  not  true,  doesn't  concern  mc.  I  entirely  decline 
to  be  mixed  up  in  your  life.  Keep  your  horrible 
secrets  to  yourself.  They  don't  interest  me  any 
more." 

"  Alan,  they  will  have  to  interest  you.  This  one 
will  have  to  interest  you.  I  am  awfully  sorry  for 
you,  Alan.  But  I  can't  help  myself  You  are  the 
one  man  who  is  able  to  save  me.  I  am  forced  to 
bring  you  into  the  matter.  I  have  no  option. 
Alan,  you  are  scientific.  You  know  about 
chemistry,  and  things  of  that  kind.  You  have 
made  experiments.  What  you  have  got  to  do  is 
to  destroy  the  thing  that  is  upstairs — to  destroy  it 
so  that  not  a  vestige  of  it  will  be  left.  Nobody  saw 
this  person  come  into  the  house.  Indeed,  at  the 
present  moment  he  is  supposed  to  be  in  Paris. 
He  will  not  be  missed  for  months.  When  he  is 
missed,  there  must  be  no  trace  of  him  found  here. 
You,  Alan,  you  must  change  him,  and  everything 
that  belongs  to  him,  into  a  handful  of  ashes  that  I 
may  scatter  in  the  air." 

"  You  are  mad,  Dorian." 

"  Ah  !  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  call  me  Dorian." 

"  You  are  mad,  I  tell  you — mad  to  imagine  that 
I  would  raise  a  finger  to  help  you,  mad  to  make 
250 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

this  monstrous  confession.  I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  this  matter,  whatever  it  is.  Do  you  think 
I  am  going  to  peril  my  reputation  for  you  ?  What 
is  it  to  me  what  devil's  work  you  are  up  to  ?  " 

"  It  was  suicide,  Alan." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  But  who  drove  him  to  it  ? 
You,  I  should  fancy." 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  to  do  this  for  me  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  refuse.  I  will  have  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  don't  care  what  shame 
comes  on  you.  You  deserve  it  all.  I  should  not 
be  sorry  to  see  you  disgraced,  publicly  disgraced. 
How  dare  you  ask  me,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  to 
mix  myself  up  in  this  horror .?  I  should  have 
thought  you  knew  more  about  people's  characters. 
Your  friend  Lord  Henry  Wotton  can't  have  taught 
you  much  about  psychology,  whatever  else  he  has 
taught  you.  Nothing  will  induce  me  to  stir  a  step 
to  help  you.  You  have  come  to  the  wrong  man. 
Go  to  some  of  your  friends.  Don't  come  to 
me. 

"  Alan,  it  was  murder.  I  killed  him.  You  don't 
know  what  he  had  made  me  suffer.  Whatever  my 
life  is,  he  had  more  to  do  with  the  making  or  the 
marring  of  it  than  poor  Harry  has  had.  He  may 
not  have  intended  it,  the  result  was  the  same." 

"  Murder  !  Good   God^  Dorian,  is  that  what  you 

have  come  to  .?    I  shall  not  inform  upon  you.     It  is 

not  my  business.     Besides,  without  my  stirring  in 

the  matter,  you   are  certain  to  be  arrested.     No- 

251 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

body  ever  commits  a  crime  without  doing  some- 
thing stupid.  But  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it." 

"  You  must  have  something  to  do  with  it.  Wait, 
wait 'a  moment ;  listen  to  me.  Only  listen,  Alan. 
All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  perform  a  certain  scientific 
experiment.  You  go  to  hospitals  and  dead-houses, 
and  the  horrors  that  you  do  there  don't  affect  you.  If 
in  some  hideous  dissecting-room  or  fetid  laboratory 
you  found  this  man  lying  on  a  leaden  table  with 
red  gutters  scooped  out  in  it  for  the  blood  to  flow 
through,  you  would  simply  look  upon  him  as  an  ad- 
mirable subject.  You  would  not  turn  a  hair.  You 
would  not  believe  that  you  were  doing  anything 
wrong.  On  the  contrary,  you  would  probably  feel 
that  you  were  benefiting  the  human  race,  or  in- 
creasing the  sum  of  knowledge  in  the  world,  or 
gratifying  intellectual  curiosity,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  merely  what 
you  have  often  done  before.  Indeed,  to  destroy  a 
body  must  be  far  less  horrible  than  what  you  are 
accustomed  to  work  at.  And,  remember,  it  is  the 
only  piece  of  evidence  against  me.  If  it  is  dis- 
covered, I  am  lost ;  and  it  is  sure  to  be  discovered 
unless  you  help  me." 

**  I  have  no  desire  to  help  you.  You  forget 
that.  I  am  simply  indifferent  to  the  whole  thing. 
It  has  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"  Alan,  I  entreat  you.  Think  of  the  position  I 
am  in.  Just  before  you  came  I  almost  fainted 
252 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

with  terror.  You  may  know  terror  yourself  some 
day.  No !  don't  think  of  that.  Look  at  the 
matter  purely  from  the  scientific  point  of  view. 
You  don't  inquire  where  the  dead  things  on  which 
you  experiment  come  from.  Don't  inquire  now. 
I  have  told  you  too  much  as  it  is.  But  I  beg  of 
you  to  do  this.     We  were  friends  once,  Alan." 

"  Don't  speak  about  those  days,  Dorian  :  they 
are  dead." 

"The  dead  linger  sometimes.  The  man  up- 
stairs will  not  go  away.  He  is  sitting  at  the  table 
with  bowed  head  and  outstretched  arms.  Alan  ! 
Alan  !  if  you  don't  come  to  my  assistance  I  am 
ruined.  Why,  they  will  hang  me,  Alan  !  Don't 
you  understand  ?  They  will  hang  me  for  what  I 
have  done." 

"  There  Is  no  good  in  prolonging  this  scene.  I 
absolutely  refuse  to  do  anything  in  the  matter. 
It  is  insane  of  you  to  ask  me." 

"You  refuse?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  entreat  you,  Alan." 

"  It  is  useless." 

The  same  look  of  pity  came  into  Dorian  Gray's 
eyes.  Then  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  took  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  wrote  something  on  it.  He 
read  it  over  twice,  folded  it  carefully,  and  pushed 
it  across  the  table.  Having  done  this,  he  got  up, 
and  went  over  to  the  window. 

Campbell  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  then 
253 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

took  up  the  paper,  and  opened  it.  As  he  read  it, 
his  face  became  ghastly  pale,  and  he  fell  back  in 
his  chair.  A  horrible  sense  of  sickness  came  over 
him.  He  felt  as  if  his  heart  was  beating  itself  to 
death  in  some  empty  hollow. 

After  two  or  three  minutes  of  terrible  silence, 
Dorian  turned  round,  and  came  and  stood  behind 
him,  putting  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  Alan,"  he  murmured, 
"  but  you  leave  me  no  alternative.  I  have  a  letter 
written  already.  Here  it  is.  You  see  the  address. 
If  you  don't  help  me,  I  must  send  it.  If  you 
don't  help  me,  I  will  send  it.  You  know  what  the 
result  will  be.  But  you  are  going  to  help  me. 
It  is  impossible  for  you  to  refuse  now.  I  tried  to 
spare  you.  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  admit 
that.  You  were  stern,  harsh,  offensive.  You 
treated  me  as  no  man  has  ever  dared  to  treat 
me — no  living  man,  at  any  rate.  I  bore  it  all. 
Now  it  is  for  me  to  dictate  terms." 

Campbell  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  a 
shudder  passed  through  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  turn  to  dictate  terms,  Alan.  You 
know  what  they  are.  The  thing  is  quite  simple. 
Comb,  don't  work  yourself  into  this  fever.  The 
thing  has  to  be  done.     Face  it,  and  do  it." 

A  groan  broke   from   Campbell's  lips,  and   he 

shivered  all  over.     The   ticking   of  the   clock  on 

the  mantelpiece    .seemed   to   him   to   be  dividing 

Time  into  separate  atoms  of  agony,  each  of  which 

254 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

was  too  terrible  to  be  borne.  He  felt  as  if  an 
iron  ring  was  being  slowly  tightened  round  his 
forehead,  as  if  the  disgrace  with  which  he  was 
threatened  had  already  come  upon  him.  The 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  weighed  like  a  hand  of 
lead.  It  was '  intolerable.  It  seemed  to  crush 
him. 

"Come,  Alan,  you  must  decide  at  once." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  he  said,  mechanically,  as  though 
words  could  alter  things. 

"  You  must.  You  have  no  choice.  Don't 
delay" 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Is  there  a  fire  in 
the  room  upstairs  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  gas-fire  with  asbestos." 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  home  and  get  some  things 
from  the  laboratory." 

"  No,  Alan,  you  must  not  leave  the  house. 
Write  out  on  a  sheet  of  note-paper  what  you 
want,  and  my  servant  will  take  a  cab  and  bring 
the  things  back  to  you." 

Campbell  scrawled  a  few  lines,  blotted  them, 
and  addressed  an  envelope  to  his  assistant.  Dorian 
took  the  note  up  and  read  it  carefully.  Then  he 
rang  the  bell,  and  gave  it  to  his  valet,  with  orders 
to  return  as  soon  as  possible,  and  to  bring  the 
things  with  him. 

As  the  hall  door  shut,  Campbell  started  ner- 
vously, and,  having  got  up  from  the  chair,  went 
over  to  the  chimney-piece.  He  was  shivering  with 
255 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

a  kind  of  ague.  For  nearly  twenty  minutes, 
neither  of  the  men  spoke.  A  fly  buzzed  noisily 
about  the  room,  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  was 
like  the  beat  of  a  hammer. 

As  the  chime  struck  one,  Campbell  turned  round, 
and,  looking  at  Dorian  Gray,  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears.  There  was  something  in 
the  purity  and  refinement  of  that  sad  face  that 
seemed  to  enrage  him.  "  You  are  infamous,  abso- 
lutely infamous  !  "  he  muttered. 

"  Hush,  Alan  :  you  have  saved  my  life,"  said 
Dorian. 

"  Your  life  ?  Good  heavens !  what  a  life  that 
is !  You  have  gone  from  corruption  to  corrup- 
tion', and  now  you  have  culminated  in  crime.  In 
doing  what  I  am  going  to  do,  what  you  force  me 
to  do,  it  is  not  of  your  life  that  I  am  thinking." 

"  Ah,  Alan,"  murmured  Dorian,  with  a  sigh, 
"  I  wish  you  had  a  thousandth  part  of  the  pity 
for  me  that  I  have  for  you."  He  turned  away  as 
he  spoke,  and  stood  looking  out  at  the  garden. 
Campbell  made  no  answer. 

After  about  ten  minutes  a  knock  came  to  the 
door,  and  the  servant  entered,  carrying  a  large 
mahogany  chest  of  chemicals,  with  a  long  coil  of 
steel  and  platinum  wire  and  two  rather  curiously- 
shaped  iron  clamps. 

"  Shall  I  leave  the  things  here,  sir  ?  "  he  asked 
Campbell. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorian.  "  And  I  am  afraid,  Francis, 
256 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

that  I  have  another  errand  for  you.  What  is  the 
name  of  the  man  at  Richmond  who  supplies  Selby 
with  orchids  ?  " 

"  Harden,  sir." 

"  Yes — Harden.  You  must  go  down  to  Rich- 
mond at  once,  see  Harden  personally,  and  tell  him 
to  send  twice  as  many  orchids  as  I  ordered,  and 
to  have  as  few  white  ones  as  possible.  In  fact,  I 
don't  want  any  white  ones.  It  is  a  lovely  day, 
Francis,  and  Richmond  is  a  very  pretty  place, 
otherwise  I  wouldn't  bother  you  about  it." 

"  No  trouble,  sir.  At  what  time  shall  I  be 
back?" 

Dorian  looked  at  Campbell.  "  How  long  will 
your  experiment  take,  Alan  ? "  he  said,  in  a  calm, 
indifferent  voice.  The  presence  of  a  third  person 
in  the  room  seemed  to  give  him  extraordinary 
courage. 

Campbell  frowned,  and  bit  his  lip.  "  It  will 
take  about  five  hours,"  he  answered. 

"  It  will  be  time  enough,  then,  if  you  are  back 
at  half-past  seven,  Francis.  Or  stay :  just  leave 
my  things  out  for  dressing.  You  can  have  the 
evening  to  yourself  I  am  not  dining  at  home, 
so  I  shall  not  want  you." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  man,  leaving  the 
room. 

"  Now,  Alan,  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost. 
How  heavy  this  chest  is !  I'll  take  it  for  you. 
You  bring  the  other  things."  He  spoke  rapidly, 
257  s 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

and  in    an   authoritative   manner.     Campbell  felt 
dominated  by  him.     They  left  the  room  together. 

When  they  reached  the  top  landing,  Dorian 
took  out  the  key  and  turned  it  in  the  lock.  Then 
he  stopped,  and  a  troubled  look  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  shuddered.  "  I  don't  think  I  can  go 
in,  Alan,"  he  murmured. 

"It  is  nothing  to  me.  I  don't  require  you,'' 
said  Campbell,  coldly. 

Dorian  half  opened  the  door.  As  he  did  so, 
he  saw  the  face  of  his  portrait  leering  in  the 
sunlight.  On  the  floor  in  front  of  it  the  torn 
curtain  was  lying.  He  remembered  that  the  night 
before  he  had  forgotten,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
to  hide  the  fatal  canvas,  and  was  about  to  rush 
forward,  when  he  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

What  was  that  loathsome  red  dew  that  gleamed, 
wet  and  glistening,  on  one  of  the  hands,  as  though 
the  canvas  h^  sweated  blood  ?  How  horrible  it 
was  ! — more  horrible,  it  seemed  to  him  for  the 
moment,  than  the  silent  thing  that  he  knew 
was  stretched  across  the  table,  the  thing  whose 
grotesque  misshapen  shadow  on  the  spotted  carpet 
showed  him  that  it  had  not  stirred,  but  was  still 
there,  as  he  had  left  it. 

He  heaved  a  deep  breath,  opened  the  door 
a  little  wider,  and  with  half-  closed  eyes  and 
averted  head  walked  quickly  in,  determined  that 
he  would  not  look  even  once  upon  the  dead  man. 
Then,  stooping   down,  and    taking   up   the  gold- 

258 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

and-purple  hanging,  he  flung  it  right  over  the 
picture. 

There  he  stopped,  feeh'ng  afraid  to  turn  round, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  intricacies  of 
the  pattern  before  him.  He  heard  Campbell 
bringing  in  the  heavy  chest,  and  the  irons,  and 
the  other  things  that  he  had  required  for  his 
dreadful  work.  He  began  to  wonder  if  he  and 
Basil  Hall  ward  had  ever  met,  and,  if  so,  what  they 
had  thought  of  each  other. 

"  Leave  me  now,"  said  a  stern  voice  behind  him. 

He  turned  and  hurried  out,  just  conscious  that 
the  dead  man  had  been  thrust  back  into  the  chair, 
and  that  Campbell  was  gazing  into  a  glistening 
yellow  face.  As  he  was  going  downstairs  he  heard 
the  key  being  turned  in  the  lock. 

It  was  long  after  seven  when  Campbell  came 
back  into  the  library.  He  was  pale,  but  abso- 
lutely calm.  "  I  have  done  what  you  asked  me 
to  do,"  he  muttered.  "And  now,  good-bye.  Let 
us  never  see  each  other  again." 

"  You  have  saved  me  from  ruin,  Alan.  I  cannot 
forget  that,"  said  Dorian,  simply. 

As  soon  as  Campbell  had  left,  he  went  upstairs. 
There  was  a  horrible  smell  of  nitric  acid  in  the 
room.  But  the  thing  that  had  been  sitting  at  the 
table  was  gone. 


259 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THAT  evening,  at  eight-thirty,  exquisitely 
dressed,  and  wearing  a  large  buttonhole  of 
Parma  violets,  Dorian  Gray  was  ushered  into  Lady 
Narborough's  drawing-room  by  bowing  servants. 
His  forehead  was  throbbing  with  maddened  nerves, 
and  he  felt  wildly  excited,  but  his  manner  as  he 
bent  over  his  hostess's  hand  was  as  easy  and  grace- 
ful as  ever.  Perhaps  one  never  seems  so  much  at 
one's  ease  as  when  one  has  to  play  a  part.  Cer- 
tainly no  one  looking  at  Dorian  Gray  that  night 
could  have  believed  that  he  had  passed  through 
a  tragedy  as  horrible  as  any  tragedy  of  our  age. 
Those  finely  -  shaped  fingers  could  never  have 
clutched  a  knife  for  sin,  nor  those  smiling  lips 
have  cried  out  on  God  and  goodness.  He  himself 
could  not  help  wondering  at  the  calm  of  his 
demeanour,  and  for  a  moment  felt  keenly  the  terrible 
pleasure  of  a  double  life. 

It  was  a  small  party,  got  up  rather  in  a  hurry  by 
Lady  Narborough,  who  was  a  very  clever  woman, 
with  what  Lord  Henry  used  to  describe  as  the 
remains  of  really  remarkable   ugliness.     She  had 

260 


THE  PICTURE  OE  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

proved  an  excellent  wife  to  one  of  our  most  tedious 
ambassadors,  and  having  buried  her  husband 
properly  in  a  marble  mausoleum,  which  she  had 
herself  designed,  and  married  off  her  daughters  to 
some  rich,  rather  elderly  men,  she  devoted  herself 
now  to  the  pleasures  of  French  fiction,  French 
cookery,  and  French  esprit  when  she  could  get  it. 

Dorian  was  one  of  her  especial  favourites,  and 
she  always  told  him  that  she  was  extremely  glad 
she  had  not  met  him  in  early  life.  "  I  know,  my 
dear,  I  should  have  fallen  madly  in  love  with  you," 
she  used  to  say,  "  and  thrown  my  bonnet  right 
over  the  mills  for  your  sake.  It  is  most  fortunate 
that  you  were  not  thought  of  at  the  time.  As  it  was, 
our  bonnets  were  so  unbecoming,  and  the  mills 
were  so  occupied  in  trying  to  raise  the  wind,  that  I 
never  had  even  a  flirtation  with  anybody.  How- 
ever, that  was  all  Narborough's  fault.  He  was 
dreadfully  short-sighted,  and  there  is  no  pleasure 
in  taking  in  a  husband  who  never  sees  anything." 

Her  guests  this  evening  were  rather  tedious. 
The  fact  was,  as  she  explained  to  Dorian,  behind  a 
very  shabby  fan,  one  of  her  married  daughters  had 
come  up  quite  suddenly  to  stay  with  her,  and, 
to  make  matters  worse,  had  actually  brought  her 
husband  with  her.  "  I  think  it  is  most  unkind  of 
her,  my  dear,"  she  whispered.  "  Of  course  I  go 
and  stay  with  them  every  summer  after  I  come 
from  Homburg,  but  then  an  old  woman  like  me 
must   have    fresh   air   sometimes,  and    besides,  I 

261 


THE  PICTURE  OF  nORlAN  GRA  V. 

really  wake  them  up.  You  don't  know  what 
an  existence  they  lead  down  there.  It  is 
pure  unadulterated  country  life.  They  get  up 
early,  because  they  have  so  much  to  do,  and  go 
to  bed  early  because  they  have  so  little  to  think 
about.  There  has  not  been  a  scandal  in  the 
neighbourhood  since  the  time  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, and  consequently  they  all  fall  asleep  after 
dinner.  You  sha'n't  sit  next  either  of  them.  You 
shall  sit  by  me,  and  amuse  me." 

Dorian  murmured  a  graceful  compliment,  and 
looked  round  the  room.  Yes :  it  was  certainly  a 
tedious  party.  Two  of  the  people  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  the  others  consisted  of  Ernest 
Harrowden,  one  of  those  middle-aged  mediocrities 
so  common  in  London  clubs  who  have  no  enemies, 
but  are  thoroughly  disliked  by  their  friends  ;  Lady 
Roxton,  an  overdressed  woman  of  forty-seven, 
with  a  hooked  nose,  who  was  always  trying  to  get 
herself  compromised,  but  was  so  peculiarly  plain 
that  to  her  great  disappointment  no  one  would 
ever  believe  anything  against  her  ;  Mrs.  Erlynne, 
a  pushing  nobody,  with  a  delightful  lisp,  and 
Venetian-red  hair ;  Lady  Alice  Chapman,  his 
hostess's  daughter,  a  dowdy  dull  girl,  with  one  of 
those  characteristic  British  faces,  that,  once  seen, 
are  never  remembered  ;  and  her  husband,  a  red- 
cheeked,  white-whiskered  creature  who,  like  so  many 
of  his  class,  was  under  the  impression  that  inordi- 
nate joviality  can  atone  for  an  entire  lack  of  ideas. 

262 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

He  was  rather  sorry  he  had  come,  till  Lady 
Narborough,  looking  at  the  great  ormolu  gilt  clock 
that  sprawled  in  gaudy  curves  on  the  mauve-draped 
mantelshelf,  exclaimed  :  "  How  horrid  of  Henry 
Wotton  to  be  so  late  !  I  sent  round  to  him  this 
morning  on  chance,  and  he  promised  faithfully  not 
to  disappoint  me." 

It  was  some  consolation  that  Harry  was  to  be 
there,  and  when  the  door  opened  and  he  heard  his 
slow  musical  voice  lending  charm  to  some  insincere 
apology,  he  ceased  to  feel  bored. 

But  at  dinner  he  could  not  eat  anything.  Plate 
after  plate  went  away  untasted.  Lady  Narborough 
kept  scolding  him  for  what  she  called  "an  insult  to 
poor  Adolphe,  who  invented  the  memi  specially  for 
you,"  and  now  and  then  Lord  Henry  looked  across 
at  him,  wondering  at  his  silence  and  abstracted 
manner.  From  time  to  time  the  butler  filled  his 
glass  with  champagne.  He  drank  eagerly,  and  his 
thirst  seemed  to  increase. 

"  Dorian,"  said  Lord  Henry,  at  last,  as  the  chaud- 
frdid  was  being  handed  round,  "  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  to-night  ?     You  are  quite  out  of  sorts." 

"  I  believe  he  is  in  love,"  cried  Lady  Narborough, 
"and  that  he  is  afraid  to  tell  me  for  fear  I  should  be 
jealous.     He  is  quite  right.     I  certainly  should." 

"  Dear  Lady  Narborough,"  murmured  Dorian, 
smiling,  "  I  have  not  been  in  love  for  a  whole 
week — not,  in  fact,  since  Madame  de  Ferrol  left 
town." 

263 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  How  you  men  can  fall  in  love  with  that 
woman  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lady.  **  I  really  cannot 
understand  it." 

"  It  is  simply  because  she  remembers  you  when 
you  were  a  little  girl,  Lady  Narborough,"  said 
Lord  Henry.  "  She  is  the  one  link  between  us 
and  your  short  frocks." 

"  She  does  not  remember  my  short  frocks  at 
all,  Lord  Henry.  But  I  remember  her  very  well 
at  Vienna  thirty  years  ago,  and  how  decolleUe  she 
was  then." 

"  She  is  still  decolletcel'  he  answered,  taking  an 
olive  in  his  long  fingers ;  "  and  when  she  is  in  a 
very  smart  gown  she  looks  like  an  (fditio7i  de  luxe 
of  a  bad  French  novel.  She  is  really  wonderful, 
and  full  of  surprises.  Her  capacity  for  family 
affection  is  extraordinary.  When  her  third  hus- 
band died,  her  hair  turned  quite  gold  from  grief" 

"  How  can  you,  Harry  !  "  cried  Dorian. 

"  It  is  a  most  romantic  explanation,"  laughed  the 
hostess.  '*  But  her  third  husband.  Lord  Henry  ! 
You  don't  mean  to  say  Ferrol  is  the  fourth  } " 

"  Certainly,  Lady  Narborough." 

*'  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  Well,  ask  Mr.  Gray.  He  is  one  of  her  most 
intimate  friends." 

"  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Gray  t  " 

"  She  assures  me  so,  Lady  Narborough,"  said 
Dorian.  "  I  asked  her  whether,  like  Marguerite  de 
Navarre,  she  had  their  hearts  embalmed  and  hung 

264 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

at  her  girdle.     She  told   me  she  didn't,  because 
none  of  them  had  had  any  hearts'at  all." 

"  Four  husbands  !  Upon  my  word  that  is  trop  de 
zeler 

"  Trop  d'  audace,  I  tell  her,"  said  Dorian. 

"  Oh  !  she  is  audacious  enough  for  anything,  my 
dear.    And  what  is  Ferrol  like.?    I  don't  know  him." 

"  The  husbands  of  very  beautiful  women  belong 
to  the  criminal  classes,"  said  Lord  Henry,  sipping 
his  wine. 

Lady  Narborough  hit  him  with  her  fan.  "  Lord 
Henry,  I  am  not  at  all  surprised  that  the  world 
says  that  you  are  extremely  wicked." 

"But  what  world  says  that?"  asked  Lord 
Henry,  elevating  his  eyebrows.  "  It  can  only  be 
the  next  world.  This  world  and  I  are  on  excellent 
terms." 

"  Everybody  I  know  says  you  are  very  wicked," . 
cried  the  old  lady,  shaking  her  head. 

Lord  Henry  looked  serious  for  some  moments. 
"It  is  perfectly  monstrous,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"  the  way  people  go  about  nowadays  saying 
things  against  one  behind  one's  back  that  are 
absolutely  and  entirely  true." 

"Isn't  he  incorrigible?"  cried  Dorian,  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  his  hostess,  laughing.  "  But 
really  if  you  all  worship  Madame  de  Ferrol  in 
this  ridiculous  way,  I  shall  have  to  marry  again  so 
as  to  be  in  the  fashion." 

265 


7 HE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  You  will  never  marry  again,  Lady  Nar- 
borough,"  broke  in  Lord  Henry.  "  You  were  far 
too  happy.  When  a  woman  marries  again  it  is 
because  she  detested  her  first  husband.  When  a 
man  marries  again,  it  is  because  he  adored  his  first 
wife.     Women  try  their  luck  ;  men  risk  theirs." 

"  Narborough  wasn't  perfect,"  cried  the  old 
lady. 

"  If  he  had  been,  you  would  not  have  loved  him, 
my  dear  lady,"  was  the  rejoinder.  **  Women  love 
us  for  our  defects.  If  we  have  enough  of  them 
they  will  forgive  us  everything,  even  our  intellects. 
You  will  never  ask  me  to  dinner  again,  after  saying 
this,  I  am  afraid.  Lady  Narborough  ;  but  it  is 
quite  true." 

"  Of  course  it  is  true,  Lord  Henry.  If  we 
women  did  not  love  you  for  your  defects,  where 
would  you  all  be  ?  Not  one  of  you  would  ever  be 
married.  You  would  be  a  set  of  unfortunate 
bachelors.  Not,  however,  that  that  would  alter 
you  much.  Nowadays  all  the"  married  men  live 
like  bachelors,  and  all  the  bachelors  like  married 
men." 

" Fin  de  siicle"  murmured  Lord  Henry. 

"  Fi7i  dit globe''  answered  his  hostess. 

"  I  wish  it  were  fin  du  globe,''  said  Dorian,  with 
a  sigh.     "  Life  is  a  great  disappointment." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  cried  Lady  Narborough, 
putting  on  her  gloves,  "  don't  tell  me  that  you 
have  exhausted  Life.     When  a  man  says  that  one 

256 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

knows  that  Life  has  exhausted  him.  Lord  Henry 
is  very  wicked,  and  I  sometimes  wish  that  I  had 
been  ;  but  you  are  made  to  be  good — you  look 
so  good.  I  must  find  you  a  nice  wife.  Lord 
Henry,  don't  you  think  that  Mr.  Gray  should  get 
married  ?  " 

"  I  am  always  telling  him  so,  Lady  Narborough," 
said  Lord  Henry,  with  a  bow. 

"  Well,  we  must  look  out  for  a  suitable  match  for 
him.  I  shall  go  through  Debrett  carefully  to-night, 
and  draw  out  a  list  of  all  the  eligible  young 
ladies." 

"  With  their  ages,  Lady  Narborough  > "  asked 
Dorian. 

"  Of  course,  with  their  ages,  slightly  edited. 
But  nothing  must  be  done  in  a  hurry.  I  want  it 
to  be  what  T/ie  Morning  Post  calls  a  suitable 
alliance,  and  I  want  you  both  to  be  happy." 

"  What  nonsense  people  talk  about  happy  mar- 
riages !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Henry.  "  A  man  can  be 
happy  with  any  woman,  as  long  as  he  does  not 
love  her." 

"  Ah  !  what  a  cynic  you  are  !  "  cried  the  old  lady, 
pushing  back  her  chair,  and  nodding  to  Lady 
Ruxton.  "  You  must  come  and  dine  with  me  soon 
again.  You  are  really  an  admirable  tonic,  much 
better  than  what  Sir  Andrew  prescribes  for  me. 
You  must  tell  me  what  people  you  would  like  to 
meet,  though.  I  want  it  to  be  a  delightful  gather- 
ing." 

267 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

"  I  like  men  who  have  a  future,  and  women  who 
have  a  past,"  he  answered.  "  Or  do  you  think  that 
would  make  it  a  petticoat  party  ?  " 

"  I  fear  so,"  she  said,  laughing,  as  she  stood  up. 
"  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  Lady  Ruxton,"  she 
added,  "I  didn't  see  you  hadn't  finished  your 
cigarette." 

"Never  mind,  Lady  Narborough.  I  smoke  a 
great  deal  too  much.  I  am  going  to  limit  myself, 
for  the  future." 

"  Pray  don't.  Lady  Ruxton,"  said  Lord  Henry. 
"  Moderation  is  a  fatal  thing.  Enough  is  as  bad 
as  a  meal.  More  than  enough  is  as  good  as  a 
feast." 

Lady  Ruxton  glanced  at  him  curiously.  "  You 
must  come  and  explain  that  to  me  some  afternoon. 
Lord  Henry.  It  sounds  a  fascinating  theory," 
she  murmured,  as  she  swept  out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  mind  you  don't  stay  too  long  over  your 
politics  and  scandal,"  cried  Lady  Narborough  from 
the  door.  "If  you  do,  we  are  sure  to  squabble 
upstairs." 

The  men  laughed,  and  Mr.  Chapman  got  up 
solemnly  from  the  foot  of  the  table  and  came  up 
to  the  top.  Dorian  Gray  changed  his  seat,  and 
went  and  sat  by  Lord  Henry.  Mr.  Chapman 
began  to  talk  in  a  loud  voice  about  the  situation  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  He  guffawed  at  his 
adversaries.  The  word  doctrinaire — word  full  of 
terror  to  the  British  mind — reappeared  from  time 

268 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

to  time  between  his  explosions.  An  alliterative 
prefix  served  as  an  ornament  of  oratory.  He 
hoisted  the  Union  Jack  on  the  pinnacles  of 
Thought.  The  inherited  stupidity  of  the  race — 
sound  English  common  sense  he  jovially  termed 
it — was  shown  to  be  the  proper  bulwark  for 
Society. 

A  smile  curved  Lord  Henry's  lips,  and  he  turned 
round  and  looked  at  Dorian. 

"Are  you  better,  my  dear  fellow?"  he  asked. 
"  You  seemed  rather  out  of  sorts  at  dinner." 

"  I  am  quite  well,  Harry.  I  am  tired.  That  is 
all." 

"  You  were  charming  last  night.  The  little 
Duchess  is  quite  devoted  to  you.  She  tells  me  she 
is  going  down  to  Selby." 

"  She  has  promised  to  come  on  the  twentieth." 

"  Is  Monmouth  to  be  there  too  ?  " 

''  Oh,  yes,  Harry." 

"  He  bores  me  dreadfully,  almost  as  much  as  he 
bores  her.  She  is  very  clever,  too  clever  for  a 
woman.  She  lacks  the  indefinable  charm  of  weak- 
ness. It  is  the  feet  of  clay  that  make  the  gold  of 
the  image  precious.  Her  feet  are  very  pretty,  but 
they  are  not  feet  of  clay.  White  porcelain  feet,  if 
you  like.  They  have  been  through  the  fire,  and 
what  fire  does  not  destroy,  it  hardens.  She  has 
had  experiences." 

"  How  long  has  she  been  married  ? "  asked 
Dorian. 

269 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  An  eternity,  she  tells  me.  I  believe,  according 
to  the  peerage,  it  is  ten  years,  but  ten  years  with 
Monmouth  must  have  been  like  eternity,  with  time 
thrown  in.     Who  else  is  coming  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  Willoughbys,  Lord  Rugby  and  his 
wife,  our  hostess,  Geoffrey  Clouston,  the  usual  set. 
I  have  asked  Lord  Grotrian." 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Lord  Henry.  "  A  great  many 
people  don't,  but  I  find  him  charming.  He  atones 
for  being  occasionally  somewhat  over-dressed,  by 
being  always  absolutely  over-educated.  He  is  a 
very  modern  type." 

"  I  don't  know  if  he  will  be  able  to  come, 
Harry.  He  may  have  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo  with 
his  father." 

"  Ah !  what  a  nuisance  people's  people  are ! 
Try  and  make  him  come.  By  the  way,  Dorian, 
you  ran  off  very  early  last  night.  You  left  before 
eleven.  What  did  you  do  afterwards  ?  Did  you 
go  straight  home  ?  " 

Dorian  glanced  at  him  hurriedly,  and  frowned. 
"  No,  Harry,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  did  not  get  home 
till  nearly  three." 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  club  .?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  Then  he  bit  his  lip.  "  No, 
I  don't  mean  that.  I  didn't  go  to  the  club.  I 
walked  about.  I  forget  what  I  did.  .  .  .  How 
inquisitive  you  are,  Harry !  You  always  want  to 
know  what  one  has  been  doing.  I  always  want  to 
forget  what  I  have  been  doing.     I  came  in  at  half- 

270 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

past  two,  if  you  wish  to  know  the  exact  time.  I 
had  left  my  latch-key  at  home,  and  my  servant 
had  to  let  me  in.  If  you  want  any  corroborative 
evidence  on  the  subject  you  can  ask  him." 

Lord  Henry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  My  dear 
fellow,  as  if  I  cared  !  Let  us  go  up  to  the  drawing- 
room.  No  sherry,  thank  you,  Mr.  Chapman. 
Something  has  happened  to  you,  Dorian.  Tell 
me  what  it  is.     You  are  not  yourself  to-night." 

"  Don't  mind  me,  Harry.  I  am  irritable,  and 
out  of  temper.  I  shall  come  round  and  see  yoii 
to-morrow,  or  next  day.  Make  my  excuses  to 
Lady  Narborough.  I  sha'n't  go  upstairs.  I  shall 
go  home.     I  must  go  home." 

"  All  right,  Dorian.  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  you 
to-morrow  at  tea-time.     The  Duchess  is  coming." 

"  I  will  try  to  be  there,  Harry,"  he  said,  leaving 
the  room.  As  he  drove  back  to  his  own  house  he 
was  conscious  that  the  sense  of  terror  he  thought 
he  had  strangled  had  come  back  to  him.  Lord 
Henry's  casual  questioning  had  made  him  lose  his 
nerves  for  the  moment,  and  he  wanted  his  nerve 
still.  Things  that  were  dangerous  had  to  be 
destroyed.  He  winced.  He  hated  the  idea  of 
even  touching  them. 

Yet  it  had  to  be  done.  He  realized  that,  and 
when  he  had  locked  the  door  of  his  library,  he 
opened  the  secret  press  into  which  he  had  thrust 
Basil  Hallward's  coat  and  bag.  A  huge  fire  was 
blazing.     He  piled  another  log  on  it.     The  smell 

271 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

of  the  singeing  clothes  and  burning  leather  was 
horrible.  It  took  him  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to 
consume  everything.  At  the  end  he  felt  faint  and 
sick,  and  having  lit  some  Algerian  pastilles  in  a 
pierced  copper  brazier,  he  bathed  his  hands  and 
forehead  with  a  cool  musk-scented  vinegar. 

Suddenly  he  started.  His  eyes  grew  strangely 
bright,  and  he  gnawed  nervously  at  his  under-lip. 
Between  two  of  the  windows  stood  a  large  Floren- 
tine cabinet,  made  out  of  ebony,  and  inlaid  with 
ivory  and  blue  lapis.  He  watched  it  as  though 
it  were  a  thing  that  could  fascinate  and  make 
afraid,  as  though  it  held  something  that  he  longed 
for  and  yet  almost  loathed.  His  breath  quickened. 
A  mad  craving  came  over  him.  He  lit  a  cigarette 
and  then  threw  it  away.  His  eyelids  drooped  till 
the  long  fringed  lashes  almost  touched  his  cheek. 
But  he  still  watched  the  cabinet.  At  last  he  got 
up  from  the  sofa  on  which  he  had  been  lying,  went 
over  to  it,  and,  having  unlocked  it,  touched  some 
hidden  spring.  A  triangular  drawer  passed  slowly 
out.  His  fingers  moved  instinctively  towards  it, 
dipped  in,  and  closed  on  something.  It  was  a 
small  Chinese  box  of  black  and  gold-dust  lacquer, 
elaborately  wrought,  the  sides  patterned  with 
curved  waves,  and  the  silken  cords  hung  with 
round  crystals  and  tasselled  in  plaited  metal 
threads.  He  opened  it.  Inside  was  a  green  paste 
waxy  in  lustre,  the  odour  curiously  heavy  and 
persistent 

272 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

He  hesitated  for  some  moments,  with  a  strangely 
immobile  smile  upon  his  face.  Then  shivering, 
though  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  terribly- 
hot,  he  drew  himself  up,  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 
It  was  twenty  minutes  to  twelve^  He  put  the  box 
back,  shutting  the  cabinet  doors  as  he  did  so,  and 
went  into  his  bedroom* 

As  midnight  was  striking  bronze  blows  upon 
the  dusky  air,  Dorian  Gray,  dressed  commonly, 
and  with  a  muffler  wrapped  round  his  throat,  crept 
quietly  out  of  his  house.  In  Bond  Street  he  found 
a  hansom  with  a  good  horse.  He  hailed  it,  and 
in  a  low  voice  gave  the  driver  an  address. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "It  is  too  far  for  me," 
he  muttered. 

"  Here  is  a  sovereign  for  you,"  said  Dorian. 
"  You  shall  have  another  if  you  drive  fast." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  answered  the  man,  "  you  will  be 
there  in  an  hour,"  and  after  his  fare  had  got  in  he 
turned  his  horse  round,  and  drove  rapidly  towards 
the  river. 


273 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  COLD  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  blurred 
street-lamps  looked  ghastly  in  the  dripping 
mist.  The  public-houses  were  just  closing,  and 
dim  men  and  women  were  clustering  in  broken 
groups  round  their  doors.  From  some  of  the  bars 
came  the  sound  of  horrible  laughter.  In  others, 
drunkards  brawled  and  screamed. 

Lying  back  in  the  hansom,  with  his  hat  pulled 
over  his  forehead,  Dorian  Gray  watched  with  list- 
less eyes  the  sordid  shame  of  the  great  city,  and 
now  and  then  he  repeated  to  himself  the  words 
that  Lord  Henry  had  said  to  him  on  the  first  day 
they  had  met,  "  To  cure  the  soul  by  means  of  the 
senses,  and  the  senses  by  means  of  the  soul." 
Yes,  that  was  the  secret.  He  had  often  tried  it, 
and  would  try  it  again  now.  There  were  opium- 
dens,  where  one  could  buy  oblivion,  dens  of  horror 
where  the  memory  of  old  sins  could  be  destroyed 
by  the  madness  of  sins  that  were  new. 

The  moon  hung  low  in  the  sky  like  a  yellow 
skull.  From  time  to  time  a  huge  misshapen 
cloud  stretched  a  long  arm  across  and  hid  it     The 

274 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

gas-lamps  grew  fewer,  and  the  streets  more  narrow 
and  gloomy.  Once  the  man  lost  his  way,  and  had 
to  drive  back  half  a  mile.  A  steam  rose  from  the 
horse  as  it  splashed  up  the  puddles.  The  side- 
windows  of  the  hansom  were  clogged  with  a  grey- 
flannel  mist. 

"To  cure  the  soul  by  means  of  the  senses,  and  the 
senses  by  means  of  the  soul !  "  How  the  words  rang 
in  his  ears  !  His  soul,  certainly,  was  sick  to  death. 
Was  it  true  that  the  senses  could  cure  it  ?  Inno- 
cent blood  had  been  spilt.  What  could  atone  for 
that  ?  Ah  !  for  that  there  was  no  atonement ;  but 
though  forgiveness  was  impossible,  forgetfulness 
was  possible  still,  and  he  was  determined  to  forget 
to  stamp  the  thing  out,  to  crush  it  as  one  would 
crush  the  adder  that  had  stung  one.  Indeed,  what 
right  had  Basil  to  have  spoken  to  him  as  he  had 
done  ?  Who  had  made  him  a  judge  over  others  ? 
He  had  said  things  that  were  dreadful,  horrible, 
not  to  be  endured. 

On  and  on  plodded  the  hansom,  going  slower,  it 
seemed  to  him,  at  each  step.  He  thrust  up  the 
trap,  and  called  to  the  man  to  drive  faster.  The 
hideous  hunger  for  opium  began  to  gnaw  at  him. 
His  throat  burned,  and  his  delicate  hands  twitched 
nervously  together.  He  struck  at  the  horse  madly 
with  his  stick.  The  driver  laughed,  and  whipped 
up.  He  laughed  in  answer,  and  the  man  was 
silent. 

The  way  seemed  interminable,  and  the  streets 
275 


THE  PICTURE  OE  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

like  the  black  web  of  some  sprawliiiL;  spider.  The 
monotony  became  unbearable,  and,  as  the  mist 
thickened,  he  felt  afraid. 

Then  they  passed  by  lonely  brickfields.  The  fog 
Was  lighter  here,  and  he  could  see  the  strange 
bottle-shaped  kilns  with  their  orange  fan-like 
tongues  of  fire.  A  dog  barked  as  they  went  by, 
and  far  away  in  the  darkness  some  wandering  sea- 
gull screamed.  The  horse  stumbled  in  a  rut,  then 
swerved  aside,  and  broke  into  a  gallop. 

After  some  time  they  left  the  clay  road,  and 
rattled  again  over  rough-paven  streets.  Most  of 
the  windows  were  dark,  but  now  and  then  fantastic 
shadows  were  silhouetted  against  some  lamp-lit 
blind.  He  watched  them  curiously.  They  moved 
like  monstrous  marionettes,  and  made  gestures 
like  live  things.  He  hated  them.  A  dull  rage 
was  in  his  heart.  As  they  turned  a  corner  a 
woman  yelled  something  at  them  from  an  open 
door,  and  two  men  ran  after  the  hansom  for  about 
a  hundred  yards.  The  driver  beat  at  them  with 
his  whip. 

It  is  said  that  passion  makes  one  think  in  a 
circle.  Certainly  with  hideous  iteration  the  bitten 
lips  of  Dorian  Gray  shaped  and  reshaped  those 
subtle  words  that  dealt  with  soul  and  sense,  till  he 
had  found  in  them  the  full  expression,  as  it  were,  of 
his  mood,  and  justified,  by  intellectual  approval, 
passions  that  without  such  justification  would  still 
have  dominated  his  temper.     From  cell  to  cell  of 

276 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

his  brain  crept  the  one  thought ;  and  the  wild 
desire  to  live,  most  terrible  of  all  man's  appetites, 
quickened  into  force  each  trembling  nerve  and 
fibre.  Ugliness  that  had  once  been  hateful  to 
him  because  it  made  things  real,  became  dear  to 
him  now  for  that  very  reason.  Ugliness  was 
the  one  reality.  The  coarse  brawl,  the  loathsome 
den,  the  crude  violence  of  disordered  life,  the  very 
vileness  of  thief  and  outcast,  were  more  vivid,  in 
their  intense  actuality  of  impression,  than  all  the 
gracious  shapes  of  Art,  the  dreamy  shadows  of 
Song.  They  were  what  he  needed  for  forgetful- 
ness.     In  three  days  he  would  be  free. 

Suddenly  the  man  drew  up  with  a  jerk  at  the 
top  of  a  dark  lane.  Over  the  low  roofs  and  jagged 
chimney-stacks  of  the  houses  rose  the  black  masts 
of  ships.  Wreaths  of  white  mist  clung  like  ghostly 
sails  to  the  yards. 

"  Somewhere  about  here,  sir,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  asked 
huskily  through  the  trap. 

Dorian  started,  and  peered  round.  "  This  will 
do,"  he  answered,  and,  having  got  out  hastily,  and 
given  the  driver  the  extra  fare  he  had  promised 
him,  he  walked  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  quay. 
Here  and  there  a  lantern  gleamed  at  the  stern  of 
some  huge  merchantman.  The  light  shook  and 
splintered  in  the  puddles.  A  red  glare  came  from 
an  outward-bound  steamer  that  was  coaling.  The 
slimy  pavement  looked  like  a  wet  mackintosh. 

He  hurried  on  towards  the  left,  glancing  back 
277 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

now  and  then  to  see  if  he  was  being  followed.  In 
about  seven  or  eight  minutes  he  reached  a  small 
shabby  house,  that  was  wedged  in  between  two 
gaunt  factories.  In  one  of  the  top -windows 
stood  a  lamp.  He  stopped,  and  gave  a  peculiar 
knock. 

After  a  little  time  he  heard  steps  in  the  passage, 
and  the  chain  being  unhooked.  The  door  opened 
quietly,  and  he  went  in  without  saying  a  word  to 
the  squat  misshapen  figure  that  flattened  itself  into 
the  shadow  as  he  passed.  At  the  end  of  the  hall 
hung  a  tattered  green  curtain  that  swayed  and 
shook  in  the  gusty  wind  which  had  followed  him  in 
from  the  street.  He  dragged  it  aside,  and  entered 
a  long,  low  room  which  looked  as  if  it  had  once 
been  a  third-rate  dancing-saloon.  Shrill  flaring 
gas-jets,  dulled  and  distorted  in  the  fly-blown 
mirrors  that  faced  them,  were  ranged  round  the 
walls.  Greasy  reflectors  of  ribbed  tin  backed  them, 
making  quivering  discs  of  light.  The  floor  was 
covered  with  ochre- coloured  sawdust,  trampled 
here  and  there  into  mud,  and  stained  with  dark 
rings  of  spilt  liquor.  Some  Malays  were  crouch- 
ing by  a  little  charcoal  stove  playing  with  bone 
counters,  and  showing  their  white  teeth  as  they 
chattered.  In  one  corner  with  his  head  buried 
in  his  arms,  a  sailor  sprawled  over  a  table,  and  by 
the  tawdrily-painted  bar  that  ran  across  one  com- 
plete side  stood  two  haggard  women  mocking  an 
old  man  who  was  brushing  the  sleeves  of  his  coat 

278 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

with  an  expression  of  disgust.  "  He  thinks  he's 
got  red  ants  on  him,"  laughed  one  of  them,  as 
Dorian  passed  by.  The  man  looked  at  her  in 
terror,  and  began  to  whimper. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  there  was  a  little  stair- 
case, leading  to  a  darkened  chamber.  As  Dorian 
hurried  up  its  three  ricketty  steps,  the  heavy  odour 
of  opium  met  him.  He  heaved  a  deep  breath,  and 
his  nostrils  quivered  with  pleasure.  When  he 
entered,  a  young  man  with  smooth  yellow  hair, 
who  was  bending  over  a  lamp  lighting  a  long  thin 
pipe,  looked  up  at  him,  and  nodded  in  a  hesitating 
manner. 

"  You  here,  Adrian  ?  "  muttered  Dorian. 

"  Where  else  should  I  be  }  "  he  answered,  list- 
lessly.    "  None  of  the  chaps  will  speak  to  me  now." 

"  I  thought  you  had  left  England." 

"  Darlington  is  not  going  to  do  anything.  My 
brother  paid  the  bill  at  last.  George  doesn't  speak 
to  me  either.  ...  I  don't  care,"  he  added,  with  a 
sigh.  "  As  long  as  one  has  this  stuff,  one  doesn't 
want  friends.  I  think  I  have  had  too  many 
friends." 

Dorian  winced,  and  looked  round  at  the  grotesque 
things  that  lay  in  such  fantastic  postures  on  the 
ragged  mattresses.  The  twisted  limbs,  the  gaping 
mouths,  the  staring  lustreless  eyes,  fascinated  him. 
He  knew  in  what  strange  heavens  they  were  suffer- 
ing, and  what  dull  hells  were  teaching  them  the 
secret  of  some  new  joy.     They  were  better  off  than 

279 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

he  was,  He  was  prisoned  in  thought.  Memory, 
like  a  horrible  malady,  was  eating  his  soul  away. 
From  time  to  time  he  seemed  to  see  the  eyes  of 
Basil  Hallward  looking  at  him,  Yet  he  felt  he 
could  not  stay.  The  presence  of  Adrian  Singleton 
troubled  him.  He  wanted  to  be  where  no  one 
would  know  who  he  was.  He  wanted  to  escape 
from  himself. 

"  I  am  going  on  to  the  other  place,"  he  said,  after 
a  pause. 

"On  the  wharf?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That  mad-cat  is  sure  to  be  there.  They  won't 
have  her  in  this  place  now." 

Dorian  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  am  sick  of 
women  who  love  one.  Women  who  hate  one  are 
much  more  interesting.  Besides,  the  stuff  is 
better." 

"  Much  the  same." 

"  I  like  it  better.  Come  and  have  something  to 
drink.     I  must  have  something." 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  murmured  the  young 
man. 

"  Never  mind." 

Adrian  Singleton  rose  up  wearily,  and  followed 
Dorian  to  the  bar.  A  half-caste,  in  a  ragged 
turban  and  a  shabby  ulster,  grinned  a  hideous 
greeting  as  he  thrust  a  bottle  of  brandy  and 
two  tumblers  in  front  of  them.  The  women 
sidled  up,  and  began  to  chatter.     Dorian  turned 

280 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

his  back  on   them,  and  said   something  in  a  low 
voice  to  Adrian  Singleton. 

•  A  crooked  smile,  like  a  Malay  crease,  writhed 
across  the  face  of  one  of  the  women.  "  We  are 
very  proud  to-night,"  she  sneered. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  talk  to  me,"  cried  Dorian, 
stamping  his  foot  on  the  ground.  "  What  do  you 
want?  Money?  Here  it  is.  Don't  ever  talk  to 
me  again." 

Two  red  sparks  flashed  for  a  moment  in  the 
woman's  sodden  eyes,  then  flickered  out,  and 
left  them  dull  and  glazed.  She  tossed  her  head, 
and  raked  the  coins  off  the  counter  with  greedy 
fingers.     Her  companion  watched  her  enviously. 

"  It's  no  use,"  sighed  Adrian  Singleton.  "  I  don't 
care  to  go  back.  What  does  it  matter?  I  am 
quite  happy  here." 

"  You  will  write  to  me  if  you  want  anything, 
won't  you  ?  "  said  Dorian,  after  a  pause. 

"  Perhaps." 

"Good-night,  then." 

"  Good-night,"  answered  the  young  man,  passing 
up  the  steps,  and  wiping  his  parched  mouth  with  a 
handkerchief. 

Dorian  walked  to  the  door  with  a  look  of  pain 
in  his  face.  As  he  drew  the  curtain  aside  a  hideous 
laugh  broke  from  the  painted  lips  of  the  woman 
who  had  taken  his  money.  "  There  goes  the 
devil's  bargain ! "  she  hiccoughed,  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

281 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Curse  you ! "  he  answered,  "  don't  call  me 
that." 

She  snapped  her  fingers.  "  Prince  Charming  is 
what  you  like  to  be  called,  ain't  it  ? "  she  yelled 
after  him. 

The  drowsy  sailor  leapt  to  his  feet  as  she  spoke, 
and  looked  wildly  round.  The  sound  of  the  shut- 
ting of  the  hall  door  fell  on  his  ear.  He  rushed 
out  as  if  in  pursuit. 

Dorian  Gray  hurried  along  the  quay  through  the 
drizzling  rain.  His  meeting  with  Adrian  Single- 
ton had  strangely  moved  him,  and  he  wondered  it 
the  ruin  of  that  young  life  was  really  to  be  laid  at 
his  door,  as  Basil  Hallward  had  said  to  him  with 
such  infamy  of  insult.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  for  a 
few  seconds  his  eyes  grew  sad.  Yet,  after  all,  what 
did  it  matter  to  him  ?  One's  days  were  too  brief 
to  take  the  burden  of  another's  errors  on  one's 
shoulders.  Each  man  lived  his  own  life,  and  paid 
his  own  price  for  living  it.  The  only  pity  was  one 
had  to  pay  so  often  for  a  single  fault.  One  had  to 
pay  over  and  over  again,  indeed.  In  her  dealings 
with  man  Destiny  never  closed  her  accounts. 

There  are  moments,  psychologists  tell  us,  when 
the  passion  for  sin,  or  for  what  the  world  calls  sin, 
so  dominates  a  nature,  that  every  fibre  of  the 
body,  as  every  cell  of  the  brain,  seems  to  be  instinct 
with  fearful  impulses.  Men  and  women  at  such 
moments  lose  the  freedom  of  their  will.  They 
move  to  their  terrible  end  as  automatons   move. 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Choice  is  taken  from  them,  and  conscience  is  either 
killed,  or,  if  it  lives  at  all,  lives  but  to  give  rebellion 
its  fascination,  and  disobedience  its  charm.  For  all 
sins,  as  theologians  weary  not  of  reminding  us,  are 
sins  of  disobedience.  When  that  high  spirit,  that 
morning-star  of  evil,  fell  from  heaven,  it  was  as  st 
rebel  that  he  fell. 

Callous,  concentrated  on  evil,  with  stained  mind, 
and  soul  hungry  for  rebellion,  Dorian  Gray  hastened 
on,  quickening  his  step  as  he  went,  but  as  he  darted 
aside  into  a  dim  archway,  that  had  served  him  often 
as  a  short  cut  to  the  ill-famed  place  where  he  was 
going,  he  felt  himself  suddenly  seized  from  behind, 
and  before  he  had  time  to  defend  himself  he  was 
thrust  back  against  the  wall,  with  a  brutal  hand 
round  his  throat. 

He  struggled  madly  for  life,  and  by  a  terrible 
effort  wrenched  the  tightening  fingers  away.  In  a 
second  he  heard  the  click  of  a  revolver,  and  saw 
the  gleam  of  a  polished  barrel  pointing  straight  at 
his  head,  and  the  dusky  form  of  a  short  thick-set 
man  facing  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  he  gasped. 

•'Keep  quiet,"  said  the  man.  '*If  you  stir,  I 
shoot  you." 

"  You  are  mad.     What  have  I  done  to  you  }  " 

"  You  wrecked  the  life  of  Sibyl  Vane,"  was  the 
answer,  "and  Sibyl  Vane  was  my  sister.  She 
killed  herself.  I  know  it.  Her  death  is  at  your 
door.     I  swore  I  would  kill  you  in  return.     For 

283 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

years  I  have  sought  you.  I  had  no  ckie,  no  trace. 
The  two  people  who  could  have  described  you  were 
dead.  I  knew  nothing  of  you  but  the  pet  name 
she  used  to  call  you.  I  heard  it  to-night  by  chance. 
Make  your  peace  with  God,  for  to-night  you  are 
going  to  die." 

Dorian  Gray  grew  sick  with  fear.  "  I  never 
knew  her,"  he  stammered.  "  I  never  heard  of  her. 
You  are  mad." 

"  You  had  better  confess  your  sin,  for  as  sure  as 
I  am  James  Vane,  you  are  going  to  die."  There 
was  a  horrible  moment.  Dorian  did  not  know 
what  to  say  or  do.  "  Down  on  your  knees ! " 
growled  the  man.  "  I  give  you  one  minute  to 
make  your  peace — no  more.  I  go  on  board  to- 
night for  India,  and  I  must  do  my  job  first.  One 
minute.     That's  all." 

Dorian's  arms  fell  to  his  side.  Paralyzed  with 
terror,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Suddenly  a 
wild  hope  flashed  across  his  brain.  "  Stop,"  he 
cried.  "  How  long  ago  is  it  since  your  sister 
died  ?     Quick,  tell  me  !  " 

"  Eighteen  years,"  said  the  man.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  me  ?     What  do  years  matter  >  " 

"  Eighteen  years,"  laughed  Dorian  Gray,  with  a 
touch  .of  triumph  in  his  voice.  "  Eighteen  years  ! 
Set  me  under  the  lamp  and  look  at  my  face  !  " 

James  Vane  hesitated  for  a  moment,  not  under- 
standing what  was  meant.  Then  he  seized  Dorian 
Gray  and  dragged  him  from  the  archway. 

284 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  F. 

Dim  and  wavering  as  was  the  windblown  light, 
yet  it  served  to  show  him  the  hideous  error,  as  it 
seemed,  into  which  he  had  fallen,  for  the  face  of 
the  man  he  had  sought  to  kill  had  all  the  bloom  of 
boyhood,  all  the  unstained  purity  of  youth.  He 
seemed  little  more  than  a  lad  of  twenty  summers, 
hardly  older,  if  older  indeed  at  all,  than  his 
sister  had  been  when  they  had  parted  so  many 
years  ago.  It  was  obvious  that  this  was  not  the 
man  who  had  destroyed  her  life. 

He  loosened  his  hold  and  reeled  back.  "My 
God  !  my  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  and  I  would  have 
murdered  you  ! " 

Dorian  Gray  drew  a  long  breath.  "  You  have 
been  on  the  brink  of  committing  a  terrible  crime, 
my  man,"  he  said,  looking  at  him  sternly.  "Let 
this  be  a  warning  to  you  not  to  take  vengeance 
into  your  own  hands." 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,"  muttered  James  Vane.  "  I 
was  deceived.  A  chance  word  I  heard  in  that 
damned  den  set  me  on  the  wrong  track." 

"  You  had  better  go  home,  and  put  that  pistol 
away,  or  you  may  get  into  trouble,"  said  Dorian, 
turning  on  his  heel,  and  going  slowly  down  the  street. 

James  Vane  stood  on  the  pavement  in  horror. 
He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  After  a  little 
while  a  black  shadow  that  had  been  creeping  along 
the  dripping  wall,  moved  out  into  the  light  and 
came  close  to  him  with  stealthy  footsteps.  He  felt 
a  hand  laid  on  his  arm  and  looked  round  with  a 

285 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

start.     It  was  one  of  the  women  who  had  been 
drinking  at  the  bar. 

"  Why  didn't  you  kill  him  ? "  she  hissed  out, 
putting  her  haggard  face  quite  close  to  his.  "  I 
knew  you  were  following  him  when  you  rushed  out 
from  Daly's.  You  fool !  You  should  have  killed 
him.  He  has  lots  of  money,  and  he's  as  bad  as 
bad." 

"  He  is  not  the  man  I  am  looking  for,"  he 
answered,  "  and  I  want  no  man's  money.  I  want 
a  man's  life.  The  man  whose  life  I  want  must  be 
nearly  forty  now.  This  one  is  little  more  than  a 
boy.  Thank  God,  I  have  not  got  his  blood  upon 
my  hands." 

The  woman  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  ''  Little  more 
than  a  boy !  "  she  sneered.  "  Why,  man,  it's  nigh 
on  eighteen  years  since  Prince  Charming  made  me 
what  I  am." 

"  You  lie  ! "  cried  James  Vane. 

She  raised  her  hand  up  to  heaven.  "  Before 
God  I  am  telling  the  truth,"  she  cried. 

"Before  God?" 

"  Strike  me  dumb  if  it  ain't  so.  He  is  the  worst 
one  that  comes  here.  They  say  he  has  sold  him- 
self to  the  devil  for  a  pretty  face.  It's  nigh  on 
eighteen  years  since  I  met  him.  He  hasn't  changed 
much  since  then.  I  have  though,"  she  added,  with 
a  sickly  leer. 

"  You  swear  this  ? " 

"  I  swear  it,"  came  in  hoarse  echo  from  her  flat 
286 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

mouth.  "  But  don't  give  me  away  to  him,"  she 
whined  ;  "  I  am  afraid  of  him.  Let  me  have  some 
money  for  my  night's  lodging." 

He  broke  from  her  with  an  oath,  and  rushed  to 
the  corner  of  the  street,  but  Dorian  Gray  had  dis- 
appeared. When  he  looked  back,  the  woman  had 
vanished  also. 


287 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  WEEK  later  Dorian  Gray  was  sitting  in  the 
conservatory  at  Selby  Royal  talking  to  the 
pretty  Duchess  of  Monmouth,  who  with  her  hus- 
band, a  jaded-looking  man  of  sixty,  was  amongst 
his  guests.  It  was  tea-time,  and  the  mellow  light 
of  the  huge  lace-covered  lamp  that  stood  on  the 
table  lit  up  the  delicate  china  and  hammered  silver 
of  the  service  at  which  the  Duchess  was  presiding. 
Her  white  hands  were  moving  daintily  among  the 
cups,  and  her  full  red  lips  were  smiling  at  some- 
thing that  Dorian  had  whispered  to  her.  Lord 
Henry  was  lying  back  in  a  silk -draped  wicker 
chair  looking  at  them.  On  a  peach-coloured  divan 
sat  Lady  Narborough  pretending  to  listen  to  the 
Duke's  description  of  the  last  Brazilian  beetle  that 
he  had  added  to  his  collection.  Three  young  men 
in  elaborate  smoking-suits  were  handing  tea-cakes 
to  some  of  the  women.  The  house-party  consisted 
of  twelve  people,  and  there  were  more  expected  to 
arrive  on  the  next  day. 

"  What  are  you  two  talking  about  ? "  said  Lord 
Henry,  strolling  over  to  the  table,  and  putting  his 

288 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

cup  down.  "  I  hope  Dorian  has  told  you  about 
my  plan  for  rechristening  everything,  Gladys.  It 
is  a  delightful  idea." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  rechristened,  Harry," 
rejoined  the  Duchess,  looking  up  at  him  with  her 
wonderful  eyes.  "  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  my 
own  name,  and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Gray  should  be 
satisfied  with  his." 

'*My  dear  Gladys,  I  would  not  alter  either 
name  for  the  world.  They  are  both  perfect.  I 
was  thinking  chiefly  of  flowers.  Yesterday  I  cut 
an  orchid,  for  my  buttonhole.  It  was  a  mar- 
vellous spotted  thing,  as  effective  as  the  seven 
deadly  sins.  In  a  thoughtless  moment  I  asked 
one  of  the  gardeners  what  it  was  called.  He 
told  me  it  was  a  fine  specimen  of  Robinsoniana, 
or  something  dreadful  of  that  kind.  It  is  a  sad 
truth,  but  we  have  lost  the  faculty  of  giving 
lovely  names  to  things.  Names  are  .everything. 
I  never  quarrel  with  actions.  My  one  quarrel 
is  with  words.  That  is  the  reason  I  hate  vulgar 
realism  in  literature.  The  man  who  could  call 
a  spade  a  spade  should  be  compelled  to  use 
one.      It  is  the  only  thing  he  is  fit  for." 

"  Then  what  should  we  call  you,  Harry  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  His  name  is  Prince  Paradox,"  said  Dorian. 

"  I  recognize  him  in  a  flash,"  exclaimed  the 
Duchess. 

"  I  won't  hear  of  it,"  laughed  Lord  Henry,  sink- 
289  u 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

ing  into  a  chair.    "  From  a  label  there  is  no  escape! 
I  refuse  the  title." 

"  Royalties  may  not  abdicate,"  fell  as  a  warning 
from  pretty  lips. 

"  You  wish  me  to  defend  my  throne,  then  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  I  give  the  truths  of  to-morrow." 

"  I  prefer  the  mistakes  of  to-day,"  she  answered. 

"  You  disarm  me,  Gladys,"  he  cried,  catching  the 
wilfulness  of  her  mood. 

"  Of  your  shield,  Harry  :  not  of  your  spear." 

"  I  never  tilt  against  Beauty,"  he  said,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand. 

"  That  is  your  error,  Harry,  believe  me.  You 
value  beauty  far  too  much." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  I  admit  that  I 
think  that  it  is  better  to  be  beautiful  than  to  be 
good.  But  on  the  other  hand  no  one  is  more 
ready  than  I  am  to  acknowledge  that  it  is  better 
to  be  good  than  to  be  ugly." 

"  Ugliness  is  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
then  ?  "  cried  the  Duchess.  "  What  becomes  of 
your  simile  about  the  orchid  ?  " 

"  Ugliness  is  one  of  the  seven  deadly  virtues, 
Gladys.  You,  as  a  good  Tory,  must  not  underrate 
them.  Beer,  the  Bible,  and  the  seven  deadly  virtues 
have  made  our  England  what  she  is." 

"  You  don't  like  your  country,  then  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  live  in  it." 

"  That  you  may  censure  it  the  better." 
290 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Would  you  have  me  take  the  verdict  of  Europe 
on  it  ? "  he  enquired. 

"  What  do  they  say  of  us." 

"  That  Tartuffe  has  emigrated  to  England  and 
opened  a  shop." 

"Is  that  yours,  Harry  ? " 

"  I  give  it  to  you." 

"  I  could  not  use  it.     It  is  too  true." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid.  Our  countrymen 
never  recognize  a  description." 

"  They  are  practical." 

"  They  are  more  cunning  than  practical.  When 
they  make  up  their  ledger,  they  balance  stupidity 
by  wealth,  and  vice  by  hypocrisy." 

"  Still,  we  have  done  great  things." 

*'  Great  things  have  been  thrust  on  us,  Gladys." 

"  We  have  carried  their  burden." 

"  Only  as  far  as  the  Stock  Exchange." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  believe  in  the  race," 
she  cried. 

"  It  represents  the  survival  of  the  pushing." 

"  It  has  development." 

"  Decay  fascinates  me  more." 

"  What  of  Art  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  a  malady." 

"  Love  ?  " 

"  An  illusion." 

"Religion?" 

"  The  fashionable  subsitute  for  Belief." 

"  You  are  a  sceptic." 

291 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Never  !     Scepticism  is  the  beginning  of  Faith." 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

"  To  define  is  to  limit." 

"  Give  me  a  clue." 

"Threads  snap.  You  would  lose  your  way  in 
the  labyrinth." 

"  You  bewilder  me.   Let  us  talk  of  some  one  else." 

"  Our  host  is  a  delightful  topic.  Years  ago  he 
was  christened  Prince  Charming." 

"Ah!  don't  remind  me  of  that,"  cried  Dorian  Gray. 

"  Our  host  is  rather  horrid  this  evening," 
answered  the  Duchess,  colouring.  "  I  believe  he 
thinks  that  Monmouth  married  me  on  purely 
scientific  principles  as  the  best  specimen  he  could 
find  of  a  modern  butterfly." 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  won't  stick  pins  into  you, 
Duchess,"  laughed  Dorian. 

"  Oh !  my  maid  does  that  already,  Mr.  Gray, 
when  she  is  annoyed  with  me." 

"  And  what  does  she  get  annoyed  with  you 
about.  Duchess  ?  " 

"  For  the  most  trivial  things,  Mr.  Gray,  I  assure 
you.  Usually  because  I  come  in  at  ten  minutes  to 
nine  and  tell  her  that  I  must  be  dressed  by  half- 
past  eight." 

"How  unreasonable  of  her!  You  should  give 
her  warning." 

"  I  daren't,  Mr.  Gray.  Why,  she  invents  hats 
for  me.  You  remember  the  one  I  wore  at  Lady 
Hilstone's  garden  -  party  .!*      You  don't,  but   it  is 

292 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

nice  of  you  to  pretend  that  you  do.  Well,  she 
made  it  out  of  nothing.  All  good  hats  are  made 
out  of  nothing." 

"  Like  all  good  reputations,  Gladys,"  interrupted 
Lord  Henry.  "  Every  effect  that  one  produces 
gives  one  an  enemy.  To  be  popular  one  must  be 
a  mediocrity." 

"Not  with  women,"  said  the  Duchess,  shaking 
her  head  ;  "  and  women  rule  the  world.  I  assure 
you  we  can't  bear  mediocrities.  We  women,  as 
some  one  says,  love  with  our  ears,  just  as  you  men 
love  with  your  eyes,  if  you  ever  love  at  all." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  never  do  anything  else," 
murmured  Dorian. 

"Ah!  then,  you  never  really  love,  Mr.  Gray," 
answered  the  Duchess,  with  mock  sadness. 

"  My  dear  Gladys  !  "  cried  Lord  Henry.  "  How 
can  you  say  that?  Romance  lives  by  repetition, 
and  repetition  converts  an  appetite  into  an  art. 
Besides,  each  time  that  one  loves  is  the  only  time 
one  has  ever  loved.  Difference  of  object  does  not 
alter  singleness  of  passion.  It  merely  intensifies 
it.  We  can  have  in  life  but  one  great  experience 
at  best,  and  the  secret  of  life  is  to  reproduce  that 
experience  as  often  as  possible." 

"  Even  when  one  has  been  wounded  by  it, 
Harry  ? "  asked  the  Duchess,  after  a  pause. 

"  Especially  when  one  has  been  wounded  by  it," 
answered  Lord  Henry. 

The  Duchess  turned  and  looked  at  Dorian  Gray 
293 


The  picture  of  dorian  gra  v. 

with  a  curious  expression  in  her  eyes.     "  What  do 
you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Gray  ?  "  she  enquired. 

Dorian  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  he  threw 
his  head  back  and  laughed.  "  I  ahvays  agree  with 
Harry,  Duchess." 

"  Even  when  he  is  wrong  } " 
"  Harry  is  never  wrong,  Duchess." 
"And  does  his  philosophy  make  you  happy  ?  " 
"  I  have  never   searched    for   happiness.      Who 
wants  happiness  ?     I  have  searched  for  pleasure." 
"  And  found  It,  Mr.  Gray  ?  " 
"  Often.     Too  often." 

The  Duchess  sighed.  "  I  am  searching  for  peace," 
she  said,  "  and  if  I  don't  go  and  dress,  I  shall  have 
none  this  evening." 

"  Let  me  get  you  some  orchids.  Duchess,"  cried 
Dorian,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  walking  down  the 
conservatory. 

"  You    are     flirting     disgracefully    with     him," 
said    Lord    Henry    to    his    cousin.      "  You     had 
better  take  care.     He  is  very  fascinating." 
"  If  he  were  not,  there  would  be  no  battle." 
"  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  ?  " 
"  I   am    on    the   side  of   the    Trojans.     They 
fought  for  a  woman." 
"  They  were  defeated." 

"  There  are  worse  things  than  capture,"  she 
answered. 

"  You  gallop  with  a  loose  rein." 
"  Pace  gives  life,"  was  the  riposte, 
294 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  I  shall  write  it  in  my  diary  to-night.'* 
"  What  ? " 

"  That  a  burnt  child  loves  the  fire." 
"  I  am  not  even  singed.    My  wings  are  untouched." 
"  You  use  them  for  everything,  except  flight." 
"  Courage  has  passed  from  men  to  women.     It 
is  a  new  experience  for  us." 
"  You  have  a  rival." 
"Who?" 

He   laughed.      "  Lady  Narborough,"    he    whis- 
pered.    "  She  perfectly  adores  him." 

"You  fill  me  with  apprehension.      The  appeal 
to  Antiquity  is  fatal  to  us  who  are  romanticists." 

"  Romanticists  !     You  have  all  the  methods  of 
science." 

"  Men  have  educated  us." 
"  But  not  explained  you." 
"  Describe  us  as  a  sex,"  was  her  challenge. 
"  Sphynxes  without  secrets." 
She  looked  at  him,  smiling.     "  How  long  Mr. 
Gray  is ! "  she  said.     "  Let   us   go  and  help  him. 
I  have  not  yet  told  him  the  colour  of  my  frock." 

"  Ah  !  you  must  suit  your  frock  to  his  flowers, 
Gladys." 

"  That  would  be  a  premature  surrender." 
"  Romantic  Art  begins  with  its  climax." 
"  I  must  keep  an  opportunity  for  retreat." 
"  In  the  Parthian  manner  ?  " 
"  They  found  safety  in  the  desert.     I  could  not 
do  that." 

295 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

"Women  are  not  always  allowed  a  choice,"  he 
answered,  but  hardly  had  he  finished  the  sentence 
before  from  the  far  end  of  the  conservatory  came 
a  stifled  groan,  followed  by  the  dull  sound  of  a 
heavy  fall.  Everybody  started  up.  The  Duchess 
stood  motionless  in  horror.  And  with  fear  in 
his  eyes  Lord  Henry  rushed  through  the  flapping 
palms,  to  find  Dorian  Gray  lying  face  downwards 
on  the  tiled  floor  in  a  death-like  swoon. 

He  was  carried  at  once  into  the  blue  drawing- 
room,  and  laid  upon  one  of  the  sofas.  After  a  short 
time  he  came  to  himself,  and  looked  round  with  a 
dazed  expression. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked.  "Oh!  I 
remember.  Am  I  safe  here,  Harry  ? "  He  began 
to  tremble. 

"  My  dear  Dorian,"  answered  Lord  Henry,  "  you 
merely  fainted.  That  was  all.  You  must  have 
overtired  yourself  You  had  better  not  come 
down  to  dinner.     I  will  take  your  place." 

"  No,  I  will  come  down,"  he  said,  struggling  to 
his  feet.  "  I  would  rather  come  down,  I  must 
not  be  alone." 

He  went  to  his  room  and  dressed.  There  was 
a  wild  recklessness  of  gaiety  in  his  manner  as  he 
sat  at  table,  but  now  and  then  a  thrill  of  terror 
ran  through  him  when  he  remembered  that, 
pressed  against  the  window  of  the  conservatory, 
like  a  white  handkerchief,  he  had  seen  the  face  of 
James  Vane  watching  him. 

296 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  next  day  he  did  not  leave  the  house, 
and,  indeed,  spent  most  of  the  time  in  his 
own  room,  sick  with  a  wild  terror  of  dying,  and 
yet  indifferent  to  life  itself  The  consciousness  of 
being  hunted,  snared,  tracked  down,  had  begun  to 
dominate  him.  If  the  tapestry  did  but  tremble 
in  the  wind,  he  shook.  The  dead  leaves  that 
were  blown  against  the  leaded  panes  seemed  to 
him  like  his  own  wasted  resolutions  and  wild 
regrets.  When  he  closed  his  eyes,  he  saw  again 
the  sailor's  face  peering  through  the  mist-stained 
glass,  and  horror  seemed  once  more  to  lay  its 
hand  upon  his  heart. 

But  perhaps  it  had  been  only  his  fancy  that 
had  called  vengeance  out  of  the  night,  and  set  the 
hideous  shapes  of  punishment  before  him.  Actual 
life  was  chaos,  but  there  was  something  terribly 
logical  in  the  imagination.  It  was  the  imagination 
that  set  remorse  to  dog  the  feet  of  sin.  It  was 
the  imagination  that  made  each  crime  bear  its 
misshapen  brood.  In  the  common  world  of  fact 
the   wicked  were  not  punished,  nor  the  good  re- 

297 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

warded.  Success  was  given  to  the  strong,  failure 
thrust  upon  the  weak.  That  was  all.  Besides, 
had  any  stranger  been  prowling  round  the  house 
he  would  have  been  seen  by  the  servants  or  the 
keepers.  Had  any  footmarks  been  found  on  the 
flower-beds,  the  gardeners  would  have  reported  it. 
Yes :  it  had  been  merely  fancy.  Sibyl  Vane's 
brother  had  not  come  back  to  kill  him.  He  had 
sailed  away  in  his  ship  to  founder  in  some  winter 
sea.  From  him,  at  any  rate,  he  was  safe.  Why, 
the  man  did  not  know  who  he  was,  could  not  know 
who  he  was.     The  mask  of  youth  had  saved  him. 

And  yet  if  it  had  been  merely  an  illusion,  how 
terrible  it  was  to  think  that  conscience  could  raise 
such  fearful  phantoms,  and  give  them  visible  form, 
and  make  them  move  before  one  !  What  sort  of 
life  would  his  be  if,  day  and  night,  shadows  of 
his  crime  were  to  peer  at  him  from  silent  corners, 
to  mock  him  from  secret  places,  to  whisper  in  his 
ear  as  he  sat  at  the  feast,  to  wake  him  with  icy 
fingers  as  he  lay  asleep  !  As  the  thought  crept 
through  his  brain,  he  grew  pale  with  terror,  and 
the  air  seemed  to  him  to  have  become  suddenly 
colder.  Oh  !  in  what  a  wild  hour  of  madness  he 
had  killed  his  friend  !  How  ghastly  the  mere 
memory  of  the  scene !  He  saw  it  all  again. 
Each  hideous  detail  came  back  to  him  with 
added  horror.  Out  of  the  black  cave  of  Time, 
terrible  and  swathed  in  scarlet,  rose  the  image  of 
his  sin.     When  Lord  Henry  came  in  at  six  o'clock, 

298 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

he   found    him   crying   as   one   whose   heart    will 
break. 

It  was  not  till  the  third  day  that  he  ventured  to 
go  out.  There  was  something  in  the  clear,  pine- 
scented  air  of  that  winter  morning  that  seemed 
to  bring  him  back  his  joyousness  and  his  ardour 
for  life.  But  it  was  not  merely  the  physical  con- 
ditions of  environment  that  had  caused  the  change. 
His  own  nature  had  revolted  against  the  excess  of 
anguish  that  had  sought  to  maim  and  mar  the 
perfection  of  its  calm.  With  subtle  and  finely- 
wrought  temperaments  it  is  always  so.  Their 
strong  passions  must  either  bruise  or  bend.  They 
either  slay  the  man,  or  themselves  die.  Shallow 
sorrows  and  shallow  loves  live  on.  The  loves  and 
sorrows  that  are  great  are  destroyed  by  their  own 
plenitude.  Besides,  he  had  convinced  himself  that 
he  had  been  the  victim  of  a  terror-stricken  imagi- 
nation, and  looked  back  now  on  his  fears  with 
something  of  pity  and  not  a  little  of  contempt. 

After  breakfast  he  walked  with  the  Duchess  for 
an  hour  in  the  garden,  and  then  drove  across  the 
park  to  join  the  shooting-party.  The  crisp  frost 
lay  like  salt  upon  the  grass.  The  sky  was  an 
inverted  cup  of  blue  metal.  A  thin  film  of  ice 
bordered  the  flat  reed-grown  lake. 

At  the  corner  of  the  pine-wood  he  caught  sight 
of  Sir  Geoffrey  Clouston,  the  Duchess's  brother, 
jerking  two  spent  cartridges  out  of  his  gun.  He 
jumped  from  the  cart,  and  having  told  the  groom 

299 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

to  take  the  mare  home,  made  his  way  towards  his 
guest  through  the  withered  bracken  and  rough 
undergrowth. 

"  Have  you  had  good  sport,  Geoffrey  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Not  very  good,  Dorian.  I  think  most  of  the 
birds  have  gone  to  the  open.  I  dare  say  it  will  be 
better  after  lunch,  when  we  get  to  new  ground." 

Dorian  strolled  along  by  his  side.  The  keen 
aromatic  air,  the  brown  and  red  lights  that 
glimmered  in  the  wood,  the  hoarse  cries  of  the 
beaters  ringing  out  from  time  to  time,  and  the 
sharp  snaps  of  the  guns  that  followed,  fascinated 
him,  and  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  delightful 
freedom.  He  was  dominated  by  the  carelessness 
of  happiness,  by  the  high  indifference  of  joy. 

Suddenly  from  a  lumpy  tussock  of  old  grass, 
some  twenty  yards  in  front  of  them,  with  black- 
tipped  ears  erect,  and  long  hinder  limbs  throw- 
ing it  forward,  started  a  hare.  It  bolted  for  a 
thicket  of  alders.  Sir  Geoffrey  put  his  gun  to  his 
shoulder,  but  there  was  something  in  the  animal's 
grace  of  movement  that  strangely  charmed  Dorian 
Gray,  and  he  cried  out  at  once,  "  Don't  shoot  it, 
Geoffrey.     Let  it  live." 

"  What  nonsense,  Dorian  !  "  laughed  his  com- 
panion, and  as  the  hare  bounded  into  the  thicket 
he  fired.  There  were  two  cries  heard,  the  cry  of 
a  hare  in  pain,  which  is  dreadful,  the  cry  of  a  man 
in  agony,  which  is  worse. 

300 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Good  heavens  !  I  have  hit  a  beater!  "  exclaimed 
Sir  Geoffrey.  "  What  an  ass  the  man  was  to  get 
in  front  of  the  guns !  Stop  shooting  there !  "  he 
called  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice.    "  A  man  is  hurt." 

The  head-keeper  came  running  up  with  a  stick 
in  his  hand. 

"  Where,  sir  ?  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  shouted.  At 
the  same  time  the  firing  ceased  along  the  line. 

"  Here,"  answered  Sir  Geoffrey,  angrily,  hurrying 
towards  the  thicket.  "  Why  on  earth  don't  you 
keep  your  men  back }  Spoiled  my  shooting  for 
the  day." 

Dorian  watched  them  as  they  plunged  into 
the  alder-clump,  brushing  the  lithe,  swinging 
branches  aside.  In  a  few  moments  they  emerged, 
dragging  a  body  after  them  into  the  sunlight.  He 
turned  away  in  horror.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
misfortune  followed  wherever  he  went.  He  heard 
Sir  Geoffrey  ask  if  the  man  was  really  dead,  and 
the  affirmative  answer  of  the  keeper.  The  wood 
seemed  to  him  to  have  become  suddenly  alive 
with  faces.  There  was  the  trampling  of  myriad 
feet,  and  the  low  buzz  of  voices.  A  great 
copper-breasted  pheasant  came  beating  through 
the  boughs  overhead. 

After  a  few  moments,  that  were  to  him,  in  his 
perturbed  state,  like  endless  hours  of  pain,  he  felt 
a  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  started,  and 
looked  round. 

"  Dorian,"  said  Lord  Henry,  "  I  had  better  tell 
301 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

them  that  the  shooting  is  stopped  for  to-day. 
It  would  not  look  well  to  go  on." 

"  I  wish  it  were  stopped  for  ever,  Harry,"  he 
answered,  bitterly.  "The  whole  thing  is  hideous 
and  cruel.-  Is  the  man  .  .  .  ?" 

He  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  rejoined  Lord  Henry.  "  He 
got  the  whole  charge  of  shot  in  his  chest.  He 
must  have  died  almost  instantaneously.  Come  ; 
let  us  go  home." 

They  walked  side  by  side  in  the  direction  of  the 
avenue  for  nearly  fifty  yards  without  speaking. 
Then  Dorian  looked  at  Lord  Henry,  and  said, 
with  a  heavy  sigh,  *'  It  is  a  bad  omen,  Harry,  a 
very  bad  omen." 

"What  is.?"  asked  Lord  Henry.  "Oh!  this 
accident,  I  suppose.  My  dear  fellow,  it  can't  be 
helped.  It  was  the  man's  own  fault.  Why  did  he 
get  in  front  of  the  guns  ?  Besides,  it  is  nothing  to 
us.  It  is  rather  awkward  for  Geoffrey,  of  course. 
It  does  not  do  to  pepper  beaters.  It  makes  people 
think  that  one  is  a  wild  shot.  And  Geoffrey  is 
not ;  he  shoots  very  straight.  But  there  is  no 
use  talking  about  the  matter." 

Dorian  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  a  bad  omen, 
Harry.  I  feel  as  if  something  horrible  were  going 
to  happen  to  some  of  us.  To  myself,  perhaps,"  he 
added,  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  with  a 
gesture  of  pain. 

The  elder  man  laughed.  "  The  only  horrible 
302 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  ?. 

thing  in  the  world  is  ennui^  Dorian.  That  is  the 
one  sin  for  which  there  is  no  forgiveness.  But  we 
are  not  likely  to  suffer  from  it,  unless  these  fellows 
keep  chattering  about  this  thing  at  dinner.  I  must 
tell  them  that  the  subject  is  to  be  tabooed.  As  for 
omens,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  omen.  Destiny 
does  not  send  us  heralds.  She  is  too  wise  or  too 
cruel  for  that.  Besides,  what  on  earth  could 
happen  to  you,  Dorian  ?  You  have  everything  in 
the  world  that  a  man  can  want.  There  is  no  one 
who  would  not  be  delighted  to  change  places  with 
you." 

"  There  is  no  one  with  whom  I  would  not  change 
places,  Harry.  Don't  laugh  like  that.  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth.  The  wretched  peasant  who  has  just 
died  is  better  off  than  I  am.  I  have  no  terror  of 
Death.  It  is  the  coming  of  Death  that  terrifies  me. 
Its  monstrous  wings  seem  to  wheel  in  the  leaden 
air  around  me.  Good  heavens  !  don't  you  see  a 
man  moving  behind  the  trees  there,  watching  me, 
waiting  for  me  ?  " 

Lord  Henry  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
trembling  gloved  hand  was  pointing.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  smiling,  "  I  see  the  gardener  waiting  for  you. 
I  suppose  he  wants  to  ask  you  what  flowers  you 
wish  to  have  on  the  table  to-night.  How  absurdly 
nervous  you  are,  my  dear  fellow  !  You  must  come 
and  see  my  doctor,  when  we  get  back  to  town." 

Dorian  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  saw  the 
gardener  approaching.     The  man  touched  his  hat, 

303 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

glanced  for  a  moment  at  Lord  Henry  in  a  hesi- 
tating manner,  and  then  produced  a  letter,  which 
he  handed  to  his  master.  "  Her  Grace  told  me 
to  wait  for  an  answer,"  he  murmured. 

Dorian  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket.  "  Tell 
her  Grace  that  I  am  coming  in,"  he  said,  coldly. 
The  man  turned  round,  and  went  rapidly  in  the 
direction  of  the  house. 

"  How  fond  women  are  of  doing  dangerous 
things  !  "  laughed  Lord  Henry.  "  It  is  one  of  the 
qualities  in  them  that  I  admire  most.  A  woman 
will  flirt  with  anybody  in  the  world  as  long  as  other 
people  are  looking  on." 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  saying  dangerous  things, 
Harry !  In  the  present  instance  you  are  quite 
astray.  I  like  the  Duchess  very  much,  but  I  don't 
love  her." 

"  And  the  Duchess  loves  you  very  much,  but  she 
likes  you  less,  so  you  are  excellently  matched." 

"  You  are  talking  scandal,  Harry,  and  there  is 
never  any  basis  for  scandal." 

"  The  basis  of  every  scandal  is  an  immoral 
certainty,"  said  Lord  Henry,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"  You  would  sacrifice  anybody,  Harry,  for  the 
sake  of  an  epigram." 

"  The  world  goes  to  the  altar  of  its  own  accord," 
was  the  answer. 

"  I  wish  I  could  love,"  cried  Dorian  Gray,  with  a 
deep  note  of  pathos  in  his  voice.  "  But  I  seem  to 
have  lost  the  passion,  and  forgotten  the  desire.    I  am 

304 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

too  much  concentrated  on  myself.  My  own  per- 
sonality has  become  a  burden  to  me.  I  want  to 
escape,  to  go  away,  to  forget.  It  was  silly  of  me 
to  come  down  here  at  all.  I  think  I  shall  send  a 
wire  to  Harvey  to  have  the  yacht  got  ready.  On 
a  yacht  one  is  safe." 

"  Safe  from  what,  Dorian  ?  You  are  in  some 
trouble.  Why  not  tell  me  what  it  is  }  You  know 
I  would  help  you." 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Harry,"  he  answered,  sadly. 
"  And  I  dare  say  it  is  only  a  fancy  of  mine.  This 
unfortunate  accident  has  upset  me.  I  have  a 
horrible  presentiment  that  something  of  the  kind 
may  happen  to  me." 

"What  nonsense  ! " 

"  I  hope  it  is,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  it.  Ah ! 
here  is  the  Duchess,  looking  like  Artemis  in  a 
tailor-made  gown.  You  see  we  have  come  back, 
Duchess." 

"  I  have  heard  all  about  it,  Mr.  Gray,"  she 
answered.  "  Poor  Geoffrey  is  terribly  upset.  And 
it  seems  that  you  asked  him  not  to  shoot  the  hare. 
How  curious  ! " 

'*  Yes,  it  was  very  curious.  I  don't  know  what 
made  me  say  it.  Some  whim,  I  suppose.  It  looked 
the  loveliest  of  little  live  things.  But  I  am  sorry 
they  told  you  about  the  man.  It  is  a  hideous 
subject." 

"  It  is  an  annoying  subject,"  broke  in  Lord 
Henry.     "  It  has   no   psychological   value   at   all. 

305  X 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Now  if  Geoffrey  had  done  the  thing  on  purpose, 
how  interesting  he  would  be !  I  should  like  to 
know  some  one  who  had  committed  a  real 
murder." 

"  How  horrid  of  you,  Harry  !  "  cried  the  Duchess. 
"  Isn't  it,  Mr.  Gray  ?  Harry,  Mr.  Gray  is  ill  again. 
He  is  going  to  faint." 

Dorian  drew  himself  up  with  an  effort,  and 
smiled.  "  It  is  nothing.  Duchess,"  he  murmured  ; 
"  my  nerves  are  dreadfully  out  of  order.  That  is 
all.  I  am  afraid  I  walked  too  far  this  morning.  I 
didn't  hear  what  Harry  said.  Was  it  very  bad  ? 
You  must  tell  me  some  other  time.  I  think  I  must 
go  and  lie  down.  You  will  excuse  me,  won't 
you  >  " 

They  had  reached  the  great  flight  of  steps  that 
led  from  the  conservatory  on  to  the  terrace.  As 
the  glass  door  closed  behind  Dorian,  Lord  Henry 
turned  and  looked  at  the  Duchess  with  his  slum- 
berous eyes.  "  Are  you  very  much  in  love  with 
him  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  for  some  time,  but  stood 
gazing  at  the  landscape.  "  I  wish  I  knew,"  she 
said  at  last. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Knowledge  would  be 
fatal.  It  is  the  uncertainty  that  charms  one.  A 
mist  makes  things  wonderful." 

"  One  may  lose  one's  way." 

"All  ways  end  at  the  same  point,  my  dear 
Gladys.'* 

306 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Disillusion." 

"It  was  my  debut  m  life,"  she  sighed. 

"  It  came  to  you  crowned." 

"  I  am  tired  of  strawberry  leaves." 

"  They  become  you." 

"  Only  in  public." 

"You  would  miss  them,"  said  Lord  Henry. 

"  I  will  not  part  with  a  petal." 

"  Monmouth  has  ears." 

"Old  age  is  dull  of  hearing." 

"  Has  he  never  been  jealous  ?  " 

"  I  wish  he  had  been." 

He  glanced  about  as  if  in  search  of  something* 
"What  are  you  looking  for  1  "  she  enquired. 

"The  button  from  your  foil,"  he  answered 
"  You  have  dropped  it.'* 

She  laughed.     "  I  have  still  the  mask." 

"  It  makes  your  eyes  lovelier,"  was  his  reply. 

She  laughed  again.  Her  teeth  showed  like 
white  seeds  in  a  scarlet  fruit. 

Upstairs,  in  his  own  room,  Dorian  Gray  was 
lying  on  a  sofa,  with  terror  in  every  tingling  fibre 
of  his  body.  Life  had  suddenly  become  too 
hideous  a  burden  for  him  to  bear.  The  dreadful 
death  of  the  unlucky  beater,  shot  in  the  thicket 
like  a  wild  animal,  had  seemed  to  him  to  pre- 
figure death  for  himself  also.  He  had  nearly 
swooned  at  what  Lord  Henry  had  said  in  a 
chance  mood  of  cynical  jesting. 

307 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

At  five  o'clock  he  rang  his  bell  for  his  servant 
and  gave  him  orders  to  pack  his  things  for  the 
night-express  to  town,  and  to  have  the  brougham 
at  the  door  by  eight-thirty.  He  was  determined 
not  to  sleep  another  night  at  Selby  Royal.  It 
was  an  ill-omened  place.  Death  walked  there  in 
the  sunlight.  The  grass  of  the  forest  had  been 
spotted  with  blood. 

Then  he  wrote  a  note  to  Lord  Henry,  telling 
him  that  he  was  going  up  to  town  to  consult 
his  doctor,  and  asking  him  to  entertain  his  guests 
in  his  absence.  As  he  was  putting  it  into  the 
envelope,  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  his  valet 
informed  him  that  the  head-keeper  wished  to  see 
him.  He  frowned,  and  bit  his  lip.  "  Send  him 
in,"  he  muttered,  after  some  moments'  hesitation. 

As  soon  as  the  man  entered  Dorian  pulled  his 
cheque-book  out  of  a  drawer,  and  spread  it  out 
before  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  about  the  unfortunate 
accident  of  this  morning,  Thornton  ? "  he  said, 
taking  up  a  pen. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  gamekeeper. 

"  Was  the  poor  fellow  married  ?  Had  he  any 
people  dependent  on  him  ?  "  asked  Dorian,  looking 
bored.  "  If  so,  I  should  not  like  them  to  be  left  in 
\vant,  and  will  send  them  any  sum  of  money  you 
may  think  necessary." 

"  We  don't  know  who  he  is,  sir.  That  is  what  I 
took  the  liberty  of  coming  to  you  about." 

308 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Don't  know  who  he  is?"  said  Dorian,  listlessly. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Wasn't  he  one  of  your 
men?" 

"  No,  sir.  Never  saw  him  before.  Seems  like  a 
sailor,  sir." 

The  pen  dropped  from  Dorian  Gray*s  hand,  and 
he  felt  as  if  his  heart  had  suddenly  stopped  beating. 
"  A  sailor  ?  "  he  cried  out.    "  Did  you  say  a  sailor .?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  a  sort  of 
sailor  ;  tattooed  on  both  arms,  and  that  kind  of 
thing." 

"  Was  there  anything  found  on  him?"  said  Dorian, 
leaning  forward  and  looking  at  the  man  with  startled 
eyes.     "Anything  that  would  tell  his  name?  " 

"  Some  money,  sir — not  much,  and  a  six-shooter. 
There  was  no  name  of  any  kind.  A  decent-looking 
man,  sir,  but  rough-like.    A  sort  of  sailor  we  think." 

Dorian  started  to  his  feet.  A  terrible  hope 
fluttered  past  him.  He  clutched  at  it  madly. 
"  Where  is  the  body  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Quick  !  I 
must  see  it  at  once." 

"  It  is  in  an  empty  stable  in  the  Home  Farm, 
sir.  The  folk  don't  like  to  have  that  sort  of  thing 
in  their  houses.  They  say  a  corpse  brings  bad 
luck." 

"  The  Home  Farm  !  Go  there  at  once  and  meet 
me.  Tell  one  of  the  grooms  to  bring  my  horse 
round.  No.  Never  mind.  I'll  go  to  the  stables 
myself.     It  will  save  time." 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Dorian  Gray 
309 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

was  galloping  down  the  long  avenue  as  hard  as  he 
could  go.  The  trees  seemed  to  sweep  past  him  in 
spectral  procession,  and  wild  shadows  to  fling  them- 
selves across  his  path.  Once  the  mare  swerved  at 
a  white  gate-post  and  nearly  threw  him.  He  lashed 
her  across  the  neck  with  his  crop.  She  cleft  the 
dusky  air  like  an  arrow.  The  stones  flew  from  her 
hoofs. 

At  last  he  reached  the  Home  Farm.  Two  men 
were  loitering  in  the  yard.  He  leapt  from  the 
saddle  and  threw  the  reins  to  one  of  them.  In  the 
farthest  stable  a  light  was  glimmering.  Something 
seemed  to  tell  him  that  the  body  was  there,  and  he 
hurried  to  the  door,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the 
latch. 

There  he  paused  for  a  moment,  feeling  that  he 
was  on  the  brink  of  a  discovery  that  would  either 
make  or  mar  his  life.  Then  he  thrust  the  door 
open,  and  entered. 

On  a  heap  of  sacking  in  the  far  corner  was  lying 
the  dead  body  of  a  man  dressed  in  a  coarse  shirt 
and  a  pair  of  blue  trousers.  A  spotted  handker- 
chief had  been  placed  over  the  face.  A  coarse 
candle,  stuck  in  a  bottle,  sputtered  beside  it. 

Dorian  Gray  shuddered.  He  felt  that  his  could 
not  be  the  hand  to  take  the  handkerchief  away, 
and  called  out  to  one  of  the  farm-servants  to.  come 
to  him. 

"  Take  that  thing  off  the  face.  I  wish  to  see 
it,"  he  said,  clutching  at  the  doorpost  for  support. 

310 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

When  the  farm-servant  had  done  so,  he  stepped 
forward.  A  cry  of  joy  broke  from  his  lips.  The 
man  who  had  been  shot  in  the  thicket  was  James 
Vane. 

He  stood  there  for  some  minutes  looking  at  the 
dead  body.  As  he  rode  home,  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears,  for  he  knew  he  was  safe. 


311 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  'TT^HERE  is  no  use  your  telling  me  that  you 
X  are  going  to  be  good,"  cried  Lord  Henry, 
dipping  his  white  fingers  into  a  red  copper  bowl 
filled  with  rose-water.  "You  are  quite  perfect. 
Pray,  don't  change." 

Dorian  Gray  shook  his  head.  "No,  Harry,  I 
have  done  too  many  dreadful  things  in  my  life.  I 
am  not  going  to  do  any  more.  I  began  my  good 
actions  yesterday." 

"  Where  were  you  yesterday  ?  " 

"  In  the  country,  Harry.  I  was  staying  at  a 
little  inn  by  myself." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Lord  Henry,  smiling,  "  any- 
body can  be  good  in  the  country.  There  are  no 
temptations  there.  That  is  the  reason  why  people 
who  live  out  of  town  are  so  absolutely  uncivilized. 
Civilization  is  not  by  any  means  an  easy  thing  to 
attain  to.  There  are  only  two  ways  by  which  man 
can  reach  it.  One  is  by  being  cultured,  the  other 
by  being  corrupt.  Country  people  have  no  oppor- 
tunity of  being  either,  so  they  stagnate." 

"  Culture  and  corruption,"  echoed  Dorian.  "  I 
312 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

have  known  something  of  both.  It  seems  terrible 
to  me  now  that  they  should  ever  be  found  together. 
For  I  have  a  new  ideal,  Harry.  I  am  going  to 
alter.     I  think  I  have  altered." 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  me  what  your  good  action 
was.  Or  did  you  say  you  had  done  more  than 
one  ?  "  asked  his  companion,  as  he  spilt  into  his 
plate  a  little  crimson  pyramid  of  seeded  straw- 
berries, and  through  a  perforated  shell  -  shaped 
spoon  snowed  white  sugar  upon  them. 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Harry.  It  is  not  a  story  I  could 
tell  to  any  one  else.  I  spared  somebody.  It  sounds 
vain,  but  you  understand  what  I  mean.  She  was 
quite  beautiful,  and  wonderfully  like  Sibyl  Vane. 
I  think  it  was  that  which  first  attracted  me  to  her. 
You  remember  Sibyl,  don't  you  ?  How  long  ago 
that  seems !  Well,  Hetty  was  not  one  of  our  own 
class,  of  course.  She  was  simply  a  girl  in  a  village. 
But  I  really  loved  her.  I  am  quite  sure  that  I 
loved  her.  All  during  this  wonderful  May  that  we 
have  been  having,  I  used  to  run  down  and  see  her 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  Yesterday  she  met 
me  in  a  little  orchard.  The  apple-blossoms  kept 
tumbling  down  on  her  hair,  and  she  was  laughing. 
We  were  to  have  gone  away  together  this  morning 
at  dawn.  Suddenly  I  determined  to  leave  her  as 
flower-like  as  I  had  found  her." 

"  I  should  think  the  novelty  of  the  emotion  must 
have  given  you  a  thrill  of  real  pleasure,  Dorian," 
interrupted  Lord  Henry.     "  But  I  can  finish  your 

313 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

idyll  for  you.  You  gave  her  good  advice,  and 
broke  her  heart.  That  was  the  beginning  of  your 
reformation." 

"  Harry,  you  are  horrible !  You  mustn't  say 
these  dreadful  things.  Hetty's  heart  is  not  broken. 
Of  course  she  cried,  and  all  that.  But  there  is  no 
disgrace  upon  her.  She  can  live,  like  Perdita,  in 
her  garden  of  mint  and  marigold." 

"  And  weep  over  a  faithless  Florizel,"  said  Lord 
Henry,  laughing,  as  he  leant  back  in  his  chair. 
"  My  dear  Dorian,  you  have  the  most  curiously 
boyish  moods.  Do  you  think  this  girl  will  ever  be 
really  contented  now  with  any  one  of  her  own 
rank  ?  I  suppose  she  will  be  married  some  day 
to  a  rough  carter  or  a  grinning  ploughman.  Well, 
the  fact  of  having  met  you,  and  loved  you,  will 
teach  her  to  despise  her  husband,  and  she  will  be 
wretched.  From  a  moral  point  of  view,  I  cannot 
say  that  I  think  much  of  your  great  renunciation. 
Even  as  a  beginning,  it  is  poor.  Besides,  how  do 
you  know  that  Hetty  isn't  floating  at  the  present 
moment  in  some  star-lit  mill-pond,  with  lovely 
water-lilies  round  her,  like  Ophelia  ? " 

"  I  can't  bear  this,  Harry !  You  mock  at  every- 
thing, and  then  suggest  the  most  serious  tragedies. 
I  am  sorry  I  told  you  now.  I  don't  care  what  you 
say  to  me.  I  know  I  was  right  in  acting  as  I  did. 
Poor  Hetty !  As  I  rode  past  the  farm  this  morn- 
ing, I  saw  her  white  face  at  the  window,  like  a 
spray  of  jasmine.     Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any 

314 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

more,  and  don't  try  to  persuade  me  that  the  first 
good  action  I  have  done  for  years,  the  first  little  bit 
of  self-sacrifice  I  have  ever  known,  is  really  a  sort 
of  sin.  I  want  to  be  better.  I  am  going  to  be 
better.  Tell  me  something  about  yourself  What 
is  going  on  in  town  ?  I  have  not  been  to  the  club 
for  days." 

"  The  people  are  still  discussing  poor  Basil's 
disappearance." 

"  I  should  have  thought  they  had  got  tired  of 
that  by  this  time,"  said  Dorian,  pouring  himself 
out  some  wine,  and  frowning  slightly. 

"  My  dear  boy,  they  have  only  been  talking 
about  it  for  six  weeks,  and  the  British  public  are 
really  not  equal  to  the  mental  strain  of  having 
more  than  one  topic  every  three  months.  They 
have  been  very  fortunate  lately,  however.  They 
have  had  my  own  divorce-case,  and  Alan  Camp- 
bell's suicide.  Now  they  have  got  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  an  artist.  Scotland  Yard  still 
insists  that  the  man  in  the  grey  ulster  who  left 
for  Paris  by  the  midnight  train  on  the  ninth  of 
November  was  poor  Basil,  and  the  French  police 
declare  that  Basil  never  arrived  in  Paris  at  all.  I 
suppose  in  about  a  fortnight  we  shall  be  told  that 
he  has  been  seen  in  San  Francisco.  It  is  an  odd 
thing,  but  every  one  who  disappears  is  said  to  be 
seen  at  San  Francisco.  It  must  be  a  delightful  city, 
and  possess  all  the  attractions  of  the  next  world." 

"  What  do  you  think  has  happened  to  Basil  ?  " 
315 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y, 

asked  Dorian,  holding  up  his  Burgundy  against 
the  light,  and  wondering  how  it  was  that  he  could 
discuss  the  matter  so  calmly. 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea.  If  Basil  chooses 
to  hide  himself,  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  If  he  is 
dead,  I  don't  want  to  think  about  him.  Death  is 
the  only  thing  that  ever  terrifies  me.     I  hate  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  the  younger  man,  wearily. 

"Because,"  said  Lord  Henry,  passing  beneath 
his  nostrils  the  gilt  trellis  of  an  open  vinaigrette 
box,  "  one  can  survive  everything  nowadays  except 
that.  Death  and  vulgarity  are  the  only  two  facts 
in  the  nineteenth  century  that  one  cannot  explain 
away.  Let  us  have  our  coffee  in  the  music-room, 
Dorian.  You  must  play  Chopin  to  me.  The  man 
with  whom  my  wife  ran  away  played  Chopin 
exquisitely.  Poor  Victoria !  I  was  very  fond  of 
her.  The  house  is  rather  lonely  without  her.  Of 
course  married  life  is  merely  a  habit,  a  bad  habit 
But  then  one  regrets  the  loss  even  of  one's  worst 
habits.  Perhaps  one  regrets  them  the  most.  They 
are  such  an  essential  part  of  one's  personality." 

Dorian  said  nothing,  but  rose  from  the  table, 
and,  passing  into  the  next  room,  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  let  his  fingers  stray  across  the  white  and 
black  ivory  of  the  keys.  After  the  coffee  had 
been  brought  in,  he  stopped,  and,  looking  over  at 
Lord  Henry,  said,  "  Harry,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  Basil  was  murdered  ?  " 

Lord  Henry  yawned.  "  Basil  was  very  popular, 
316 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

and  always  wore  a  Waterbury  watch.  Why  should 
he  have  been  murdered  ?  He  was  not  clever 
enough  to  have  enemies.  Of  course  he  had  a 
wonderful  genius  for  painting.  But  a  man  can 
paint  like  Velasquez  and  yet  be  as  dull  as  possible. 
Basil  was  really  rather  dull.  He  only  interested 
me  once,  and  that  was  when  he  told  me,  years  ago, 
that  he  had  a  wild  adoration  for  you,  and  that  you 
were  the  dominant  motive  of  his  art." 

"  I  was  very  fond  of  Basil,"  said  Dorian,  with  a 
note  of  sadness  in  his  voice.  "  But  don't  people 
say  that  he  was  murdered  ?" 

"  Oh,  some  of  the  papers  do.  It  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  be  at  all  probable.  I  know  there  are 
dreadful  places  in  Paris,  but  Basil  was  not  the 
sort  of  man  to  have  gone  to  them.  He  had  no 
curiosity.     It  was  his  chief  defect." 

"  What  would  you  say,  Harry,  if  I  told  you  that 
I  had  murdered  Basil  ?  "  said  the  younger  man. 
He  watched  him  intently  after  he  had  spoken. 

"  I  would  say,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  were 
posing  for  a  character  that  doesn't  suit  you.  All 
crime  is  vulgar,  just  as  all  vulgarity  is  crime.  It  is 
not  in  you,  Dorian,  to  commit  a  murder.  I  am 
sorry  if  I  hurt  your  vanity  by  saying  so,  but  I 
assure  you  it  is  true.  Crime  belongs  exclusively 
to  the  lower  orders.  I  don't  blame  them  in  the 
smallest  degree.  I  should  fancy  that  crime  was  to 
them  what  art  is  to  us,  simply  a  method  of  pro- 
curing extraordinary  sensations." 

317 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  A  method  of  procuring  sensations  ?  Do  you 
think,  then,  that  a  man  who  has  once  committed  a 
murder  could  possibly  do  the  same  crime  again  ? 
Don't  tell  mis  that." 

"  Oh !  anything  becomes  a  pleasure  if  one  does 
it  too  often,"  cried  Lord  Henry,  laughing.  "  That 
is  one  of  the  most  important  secrets  of  life.  I 
should  fancy,  however,  that  murder  is  always  a 
mistake.  One  should  never  do  anything  that  one 
cannot  talk  about  after  dinner.  But  let  us  pass 
from  poor  Basil.  I  wish  I  could  believe  that  he 
had  come  to  such  a  really  romantic  end  as  you 
suggest ;  but  I  can't.  I  dare  say  he  fell  into  the 
Seine  off  an  omnibus,  and  that  the  conductor 
hushed  up  the  scandal.  Yes  :  I  should  fancy  that 
was  his  end.  I  see  him  lying  now  on  his  back 
under  those  dull-green  waters  with  the  heavy  barges 
floating  over  him,  and  long  weeds  catching  in  his 
hair.  Do  you  know,  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
done  much  more  good  work.  During  the  last  ten 
years  his  painting  had  gone  off  very  much." 

Dorian  heaved  a  sigh,  and  Lord  Henry  strolled 
across  the  room  and  began  to  stroke  the  head  of 
a  curious  Java  parrot,  a  large  grey-plumaged  bird, 
with  pink  crest  and  tail,  that  was  balancing  itself 
upon  a  bamboo  perch.  As  his  pointed  fingers 
touched  it,  it  dropped  the  white  scurf  of  crinkled 
lids  over  black  glass-like  eyes,  and  began  to  sway 
backwards  and  forwards. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  turning  round,  and  taking 
318 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

his  handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket ;  "  his  painting 
had  quite  gone  off.  It  seemed  to  me  to  have  lost 
something.  It  had  lost  an  ideal.  When  you  and 
he  ceased  to  be  great  friends,  he  ceased  to  be  a 
great  artist.  What  was  it  separated  you  t  I 
suppose  he  bored  you.  If  so,  he  never  forgave 
you.  It's  a  habit  bores  have.  By  the  way,  what 
has  become  of  that  wonderful  portrait  he  did  of 
you  ?  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  seen  it  since  he 
finished  it.  Oh !  I  remember  your  telling  me 
years  ago  that  you  had  sent  it  down  to  Selby,  and 
that  it  had  got  mislaid  or  stolen  on  the  way.  You 
never  got  it  back  ?  What  a  pity  !  It  was  really 
a  masterpiece.  I  remember  I  wanted  to  buy  it. 
I  wish  I  had  now.  It  belonged  to  Basil's  best 
period.  Since  then,  his  work  was  that  curious 
mixture  of  bad  painting  and  good  intentions  that 
always  entitles  a  man  to  be  called  a  representative 
British  artist.  Did  you  advertise  for  it  ?  You 
should." 

"  I  forget,"  said  Dorian.  "  I  suppose  I  did.  But 
I  never  really  liked  it.  I  am  sorry  I  sat  for  it. 
The  memory  of  the  thing  is  hateful  to  me.  Why 
do  you  talk  of  it  ?  It  used  to  remind  me  of  those 
curious  lines  in  some  play — '  Hamlet,'  I  think — 
how  do  they  run  t — 

" '  Like  the  paintifig  of  a  sorrow^ 
A  face  without  a  heart.' 

Yes  :  that  is  what  it  was  like." 

319 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

Lord  Henry  laughed.  "If  a  man  treats  life 
artistically,  his  brain  is  his  heart,"  he  answered, 
sinking  into  an  arm-chair. 

Dorian  Gray  shook  his  head,  and  struck  some 
soft  chords  on  the  piano.  "  '  Like  the  painting  of 
a  sorrow,' "  he  repeated,  " '  a  face  without  a 
heart' " 

The  elder  man  lay  back  and  looked  at  him  with 
half-closed  eyes.  "  By  the  way,  Dorian,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  "  *  what  does  it  profit  a  man  if  he 
gain  the  whole  world  and  lose — how  does  the 
quotation  run  ? — his  own  soul '  ?  " 

The  music  jarred  and  Dorian  Gray  started,  and 
stared  at  his  friend.  "  Why  do  you  ask  me  that, 
Harry?" 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Lord  Henry,  elevating 
his  eyebrows  in  surprise,  "  I  asked  you  because  I 
thought  you  might  be  able  to  give  me  an  answer. 
That  is  all.  I  was  going  through  the  Park  last 
Sunday,  and  close  by  the  Marble  Arch  there  stood 
a  little  crowd  of  shabby-looking  people  listening  to 
some  vulgar  street-preacher.  As  I  passed  by,  I 
heard  the  man  yelling  out  that  question  to  his 
audience.  It  struck  me  as  being  rather  dramatic. 
London  is  very  rich  in  curious  effects  of  that  kind. 
A  wet  Sunday,  an  uncouth  Christian  in  a  mackin- 
tosh, a  ring  of  sickly  white  faces  under  a  broken 
roof  of  dripping  umbrellas,  and  a  wonderful  phrase 
flung  into  the  air  by  shrill,  hysterical  lips — it  was 
really  very  good  in  its  way,  quite  a  suggestion.     I 

320 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

thought  of  telling  the  prophet  that  Art  had  a  soul, 
but  that  man  had  not.  I  am  afraid,  however,  he 
would  not  have  understood  me." 

"Don't,  Harry.  The  soul  is  a  terrible  reality. 
It  can  be  bought,  and  sold,  and  bartered  away.  It 
can  be  poisoned,  or  made  perfect.  There  is  a  soul 
in  each  one  of  us.     I  know  it." 

"  Do  you  feel  quite  sure  of  that,  Dorian  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Ah !  then  it  must  be  an  illusion.  The  things 
one  feels  absolutely  certain  about  are  never  true. 
That  is  the  fatality  of  Faith,  and  the  lesson  of 
Romance.  How  grave  you  are !  Don't  be  so 
serious.  What  have  you  or  I  to  do  with  the 
superstitions  of  our  age  ?  No :  we  have  given 
up  our  belief  in  the  soul.  Play  me  something. 
Play  me  a  nocturne,  Dorian,  and,  as  you  play, 
tell  me,  in  a  low  voice,  how  you  have  kept 
your  youth.  You  must  have  some  secret. 
I  am  only  ten  years  older  than  you  are,  and 
I  am  wrinkled,  and  worn,  and  yellow.  You 
are  really  wonderful,  Dorian.  You  have  never 
looked  more  charming  than  you  do  to-night.  You 
remind  me  of  the  day  I  saw  you  first.  You  were 
rather  cheeky,  very  shy,  and  absolutely  extraordi- 
nary. You  have  changed,  of  course,  but  not  in 
appearance.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  your  secret. 
To  get  back  my  youth  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world,  except  take  exercise,  get  up  early,  or  be 
respectable.      Youth !      There   is  nothing   like   it. 

321  ,  Y 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  K 

It's  absurd  to  talk  of  the  ignorance  of  youth. 
The  only  people  to  whose  opinions  I  listen  now 
with  any  respect  are  people  much  younger  than 
myself.  They  seem  in  front  of  me.  Life  has 
revealed  to  them  her  latest  wonder.  As  for  the 
aged,  I  always  contradict  the  aged.  I  do  it  on 
principle.  If  you  ask  them  their  opinion  on  some- 
thing that  happened  yesterday,  they  solemnly  give 
you  the  opinions  current  in  1-820,  when  people 
wore  high  stocks,  believed  in  everything,  and  knew 
absolutely  nothing.  How  lovely  that  thing  you 
are  playing  is !  I  wonder  did  Chopin  write  it  at 
Majorca,  with  the  sea  weeping  round  the  villa,  and 
the  salt  spray  dashing  against  the  panes  ?  It  is 
marvellously  romantic.  What  a  blessing  it  is  that 
there  is  one  art  left  to  us  that  is  not  imitative  ! 
Don't  stop.  I  want  music  to-night.  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  are  the  young  Apollo,  and  that  I  am 
Marsyas  listening  to  you.  I  have  sorrows,  Dorian, 
of  my  own,  that  even  you  know  nothing  of.  The 
tragedy  of  old  age  is  not  that  one  is  old,  but  that 
one  is  young.  I  am  amazed  sometimes  at  my  own 
sincerity.  Ah,  Dorian,  how  happy  you  are  !  What 
an  exquisite  life  you  have  had  !  You  have  drunk 
deeply  of  everything.  You  have  crushed  the 
grapes  against  your  palate.  Nothing  has  been 
hidden  from  you.  And  it  has  all  been  to  you  no 
more  than  the  sound  of  music.  It  has  not  marred 
you.  You  are  still  the  same." 
"  I  am  not  the  same,  Harry." 
322 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

"  Yes  :  you  are  the  same.  I  wonder  what  the 
rest  of  your  Hfe  will  be.  Don't  spoil  it  by  renunci- 
ations. At  present  you  are  a  perfect  type.  Don't 
make  yourself  incomplete.  You  are  quite  flawless 
now.  You  need  not  shake  your  head  :  you  know 
you  are.  Besides,  Dorian,  don't  deceive  yourself 
Life  is  not  governed  by  will  or  intention.  Life  is 
a  question  of  nerves,  and  fibres,  and  slowly  built-up 
cells  in  which  thought  hides  itself  and  passion  has 
its  dreams.  You  may  fancy  yourself  safe,  and 
think  yourself  strong.  But  a  chance  tone  of  colour 
in  a  room  or  a  morning  sky,  a  particular  perfume 
that  you  had  once  loved  and  that  brings  subtle 
memories  with  it,  a  line  from  a  forgotten  poem 
that  you  had  come  across  again,  a  cadence  from  a 
piece  of  music  that  you  had  ceased  to  play — I  tell 
you,  Dorian,  that  it  is  on  things  like  these  that  our 
lives  depend.  Browning  writes  about  that  some- 
where ;  but  our  own  senses  will  imagine  them  for 
us.  There  are  moments  when  the  odour  of  /Has 
blanc  passes  suddenly  across  me,  and  I  have  to 
live  the  strangest  month  of  my  life  over  again.  I 
wish  I  could  change  places  with  you,  Dorian.  The 
world  has  cried  out  against  us  both,  but  it  has 
always  worshipped  you.  It  always  will  worship 
you.  You  are  the  type  of  what  the  age  is  search- 
ing for,  and  what  it  is  afraid  it  has  found.  I  am  so 
glad  that  you  have  never  done  anything,  never 
carved  a  statue,  or  painted  a  picture,  or  produced 
anything  outside  of  yourself !     Life  has  been  your 

323 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

art.     You  have  set  yourself  to  music.     Your  days 
are  your  sonnets." 

Dorian  rose  up  from  the  piano,  and  passed  his 
hand  through  his  hair.  "  Yes,  life  has  been  ex- 
quisite," he  murmured,  "but  I  am  not  going  to  have 
the  same  life,  Harry.  And  you  must  not  say  these 
extravagant  things  to  me.  You  don't  know  every- 
thing about  me.  I  think  that  if  you  did,  even  you 
would  turn  from  me.     You  laugh.     Don't  laugh." 

"  Why  have  you  stopped  playing,  Dorian  ?  Go 
back  and  give  me  the  nocturne  over  again.  Look 
at  that  great  honey-coloured  moon  that  hangs  in 
the  dusky  air.  She  is  waiting  for  you  to  charm  her, 
and  if  you  play  she  will  come  closer  to  the  earth. 
You  won't  ?  Let  us  go  to  the  club,  then.  It  has 
been  a  charming  evening,  and  we  must  end  it 
charmingly.  There  is  some  one  at  White's  who 
wants  immensely  to  know  you — young  Lord  Poole, 
Bournemouth's  eldest  son.  He  has  already  copied 
your  neckties,  and  has  begged  me  to  introduce  him 
to  you.  He  is  quite  delightful,  and  rather  reminds 
me  of  you." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Dorian,  with  a  sad  look  in  his 
eyes.  "  But  I  am  tired  to-night,  Harry.  I  sha'n't 
go  to  the  club.  It  is  nearly  eleven,  and  I  want  to 
go  to  bed  early." 

"  Do  stay.  You  have  never  played  so  well  as 
to-night.  There  was  something  in  your  touch  that 
was  wonderful.  It  had  more  expression  than  I 
had  ever  heard  from  it  before." 

324 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  It  is  because  I  am  going  to  be  good,"  he  an- 
swered, smiling.     "  I  am  a  little  changed  already." 

"  You  cannot  change  to  me,  Dorian,"  said  Lord 
Henry.     "  You  and  I  will  always  be  friends." 

"  Yet  you  poisoned  me  with  a  book  once.  I 
should  not  forgive  that.  Harry,  promise  me 
that  you  will  never  lend  that  book  to  any  one.  It 
does  harm." 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  are  really  beginning  to 
moralize.  You  will  soon  be  going  about  like  the 
converted,  and  the  revivalist,  warning  people  against** 
all  the  sins  of  which  you  have  grown  tired.  You 
are  much  too  delightful  to  do  that.  Besides,  it  is 
no  use.  You  and  I  are  what  we  are,  and  will  be 
what  we  will  be.  As  for  being  poisoned  by  a 
book,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  that.  Art  has  no 
influence  upon  action.  It  annihilates  the  desire  to 
act.  It  is  superbly  sterile.  The  books  that  the 
world  calls  immoral  are  books  that  show  the  world 
its  own  shame.  That  is  all.  But  we  won't  discuss 
literature.  Come  round  to-morrow.  I  am  going 
to  ride  at  eleven.  We  might  go  together,  and  I 
will  take  you  to  lunch  afterwards  with  Lady 
Branksome.  She  is  a  charming  woman,  and  wants 
to  consult  you  about  some  tapestries  she  is  thinking 
of  buying.  Mind  you  come.  Or  shall  we  lunch 
with  our  little  Duchess  }  She  says  she  never  sees 
you  now.  Perhaps  you  are  tired  of  Gladys  ?  I 
thought  you  would  be.  Her  clever  tongue  gets  on 
one's  nerves.    Well,  in  any  case,  be  here  at  eleven." 

325 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

"  Must  I  really  come,  Harry?  " 

"  Certainly.  The  Park  is  quite  lovely  now.  I 
don't  think  there  have  been  such  lilacs  since  the 
year  I  met  you." 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  be  here  at  eleven,"  said 
Dorian.  "  Good-night,  Harry."  As  he  reached 
the  door  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  had 
something  more  to  say.  Then  he  sighed  and  went 
out 


326 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IT  was  a  lovely  night,  so  warm  that  he  threw  his 
coat  over  his  arm,  and  did  not  even  put  his 
silk  scarf  round  his  throat.  As  he  strolled  home, 
smoking  his  cigarette,  two  young  men  in  evening 
dress  passed  him.  He  heard  one  of  them  whisper 
to  the  other,  "  That  is  Dorian  Gray."  He  re- 
membered how  pleased  he  used  to  be  when  he  was 
pointed  out,  or  stared  at,  or  talked  about.  He  was 
tired  of  hearing  his  own  name  now.  Half  the 
charm  of  the  little  village  where  he  had  been  so 
often  lately  was  that  no  one  knew  who  he  was. 
He  had  often  told  the  girl  whom  he  had  lured  to 
love  him  that  he  was  poor,  and  she  had  believed 
him.  He  had  told  her  once  that  he  was  wicked, 
and  she  had  laughed  at  him,  and  answered  that 
wicked  people  were  always  very  old  and  very 
ugly.  What  a  laugh  she  had  ! — ^just  like  a  thrush 
singing.  And  how  pretty  she  had  been  in  her 
cotton  dresses  and  her  large  hats !  She  knew 
nothing,  but  she  had  everything  that  he  had  lost. 
When  he  reached  home,  he  found  his  servant 
327 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

« 
waiting  up   for  him.     He  sent  him  to  bed,  and 

threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  library,  and 

began  to  think  over  some  of  the  things  that  Lord 

Henry  had  said  to  him. 

Was  it  really  true  that  one  could  never  change  ? 
He  felt  a  wild  longing  for  the  unstained  purity  of 
his  boyhood — his  rose-white  boyhood,  as  Lord 
Henry  had  once  called  it.  He  knew  that  he  had 
tarnished  himself,  filled  his  mind  With  corruption 
and  given  horror  to  his  fancy  ;  that  he  had  been 
an  evil  influence  to  others,  and  had  experienced  a 
terrible  joy  in  being  so  ;  and  that  of  the  lives  that 
had  crossed  his  own  it  had  been  the  fairest  and 
the  most  full  of  promise  that  he  had  brought  to 
shame.  But  was  it  all  irretrievable  ?  Was  there 
no  hope  for  him  ? 

Ah  !  in  what  a  monstrous  moment  of  pride  and 
passion  he  had  prayed  that  the  portrait  should  bear 
the  burden  of  his  days,  and  he  keep  the  unsullied 
splendour  of  eternal  youth  !  All  his  failure  had 
been  due  to  that.  Better  for  him  that  each  sin  of 
his  life  had  brought  its  sure,  swift  penalty  along 
with  it.  There  was  purification  in  punishment. 
Not  "  Forgive  us  our  sins  "  but  "  Smite  us  for  our 
iniquities  "  should  be  the  prayer  of  man  to  a  most 
just  God. 

The  curiously-carved  mirror  that  Lord  Henry  had 
given  to  him,  so  many  years  ago  now,  was  standing 
on  the  table,  and  the  white-limbed  Cupids  laughed 
round      as  of  old.     He  took  it  up,  as  he  had  done 

328 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

on  that  night  of  horror,  when  he  had  first  noted 
the  change  in  the  fatal  picture,  and  with  wild 
tear-dimmed  eyes  looked  into  its  polished  shield. 
Once,  some  one  who  had  terribly  loved  him,  had 
written  to  him  a  mad  letter,  ending  with  these 
idolatrous  words :  "  The  world  is  changed  because 
you  are  made  of  ivory  and  gold.  The  curves  of 
your  lips  rewrite  history."  The  phrases  came  back 
to  his  memory,  and  he  repeated  them  over  and 
over  to  himself.  Then  he  loathed  his  own  beauty, 
and  flinging  the  mirror  on  the  floor  crushed  it  into 
silver  splinters  beneath  his  heel.  It  was  his  beauty 
that  had  ruined  him,  his  beauty  and  the  youth  that 
he  had  prayed  for.  But  for  those  two  things,  his 
life  might  have  been  free  from  stain.  His  beauty 
had  been  to  him  but  a  mask,  his  youth  but  a 
mockery.  What  was  youth  at  best  ?  A  green,  an 
unripe  time,  a  time  of  shallow  moods,  and  sickly 
thoughts.  Why  had  he  worn  its  livery?  Youth 
had  spoiled  him. 

It  was  better  not  to  think  of  the  past.  Nothing 
could  alter  that.  It  was  of  himself,  and  of  his  own 
future,  that  he  had  to  think.  James  Vane  was 
hidden  in  a  nameless  grave  in  Selby  churchyard. 
Alan  Campbell  had  shot  himself  one  night  in  his 
laboratory,  but  had  not  revealed  the  secret  that  he 
had  been  forced  to  know.  The  excitement,  such 
as  it  was,  over  Basil  Hallward's  disappearance 
would  soon  pass  away.  It  was  already  waning. 
He  was  perfectly  safe  there.     Nor,  indeed,  was  it 

329 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

the  death  of  Basil  Hallward  that  weighed  most 
upon  his  mind.  It  was  the  Hving  death  of  his  own 
soul  that  troubled  him.  Basil  had  painted  the 
portrait  that  had  marred  his  life.  He  could  not 
forgive  him  that.  It  was  the  portrait  that  had 
done  everything.  Basil  had  said  things  to  him 
that  were  unbearable,  and  that  he  had  yet  borne 
with  patience.  The  murder  had  been  simply  the 
madness  of  a  moment.  As  for  Alan  Campbell, 
his  suicide  had  been  his  own  act.  He  had  chosen 
to  do  it.     It  was  nothing  to  him. 

A  new  life  !  That  was  what  he  wanted.  That 
was  what  he  was  waiting  for.  Surely  he  had  begun 
it  already.  He  had  spared  one  innocent  thing,  at 
any  rate.  He  would  never  again  tempt  innocence. 
He  would  be  good. 

As  he  thought  of  Hetty  Merton,  he  began  to 
wonder  if  the  portrait  in  the  locked  room  had 
changed.  Surely  it  was  not  still  so  horrible  as  it 
had  been  ?  Perhaps  if  his  life  became  pure,  he 
would  be  able  to  expel  every  sign  of  evil  passion 
from  the  face.  Perhaps  the  signs  of  evil  had 
already  gone  away.     He  would  go  and  look. 

He  took  the  lamp  from  the  table  and  crept 
upstairs.  As  he  unbarred  the  door,  a  smile  of  joy 
flitted  across  his  strangely  young-looking  face  and 
lingered  for  a  moment  about  his  lips.  Yes,  he 
would  be  good,  and  the  hideous  thing  that  he  had 
hidden  away  would  no  longer  be  a  terror  to  him.  He 
felt  as  if  the  load  had  been  lifted  from  him  already. 

330 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

He  went  in  quietly,  locking  the  door  behind  him, 
as  was  his  custom,  and  dragged  the  purple  hanging 
from  the  portrait.  A  cry  of  pain  and  indignation 
broke  from  him.  He  could  see  no  change,  save 
that  in  the  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  cunning,  and 
in  the  mouth  the  curved  wrinkle  of  the  hypocrite. 
The  thing  was  still  loathsome — more  loathsome,  if 
possible,  than  before — and  the  scarlet  dew  that 
spotted  the  hand  seemed  brighter,  and  more  like 
blood  newly  spilt.  Then  he  trembled.  Had 
it  been  merely  vanity  that  had  made  him  do 
his  one  good  deed  ?  Or  the  desire  for  a  new 
sensation,  as  Lord  Henry  had  hinted,  with  his 
mocking  laugh  ?  Or  that  passion  to  act  a  part 
that  sometimes  makes  us  do  things  finer  than  we 
are  ourselves  ?  Or,  perhaps,  all  these  ?  And  why 
was  the  red  stain  larger  than  it  had  been  ?  It 
seemed  to  have  crept  like  a  horrible  disease  over 
the  wrinkled  fingers.  There  was  blood  on  the 
painted  feet,  as  though  the  thing  had  dripped — 
blood  even  on  the  hand  that  had  not  held  the  knife. 
Confess  ?  Did  it  mean  that  he  was  to  confess  ? 
To  give  himself  up,  and  be  put  to  death  .?  He 
laughed.  He  felt  that  the  idea  was  monstrous. 
Besides,  even  if  he  did  confess,  who  would  believe 
him  ?  There  was  no  trace  of  the  murdered  man 
anywhere.  Everything  belonging  to  him  had  been 
destroyed.  He  himself  had  burned  what  had  been 
below-stairs.  The  world  would  simply  say  that 
he  was  mad.     They  would  shut  him  up  if  he  per- 

33^ 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V. 

sisted  in  his  story.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  his  duty  to 
confess,  to  suffer  public  shame,  and  to  make  public 
atonement.  There  was  a  God  who  called  upon 
men  to  tell  their  sins  to  earth  as  well  as  to  heaven. 
Nothing  that  he  could  do  would  cleanse  him  till  he 
had  told  his  own  sin.  His  sin  ?  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  The  death  of  Basil  Hallward  seemed 
very  little  to  him.  He  was  thinking  of  Hetty 
Merton.  For  it  was  an  unjust  mirror,  this  mirror 
of  his  soul  that  he  was  looking  at.  Vanity  ? 
Curiosity  ?  Hypocrisy  ?  Had  there  been  nothing 
more  in  his  renunciation  than  that  ?  There  had 
been  something  more.  At  least  he  thought  so. 
But  who  could  tell  ?  .  .  .  No.  There  had  been 
nothing  more.  Through  vanity  he  had  spared  her. 
In  hypocrisy  he  had  worn  the  mask  of  goodness. 
For  curiosity's  sake  he  had  tried  the  denial  of  self. 
He  recognized  that  now. 

But  this  murder — was  it  to  dog  him  all  his  life  ? 
Was  he  always  to  be  burdened  by  his  past  ?  Was 
he  really  to  confess  ?  Never.  There  was  only  one 
bit  of  evidence  left  against  him.  The  picture  itself 
— that  was  evidence.  He  would  destroy  it.  Why 
had  he  kept  it  so  long  ?  Once  it  had  given  him 
pleasure  to  watch  it  changing  and  growing  old.  Of 
late  he  had  felt  no  such  pleasure.  It  had  kept  him 
awake  at  night.  When  he  had  been  away,  he  had 
been  filled  with  terror  lest  other  eyes  should  look 
upon  it.  It  had  brought  melancholy  across  his 
passions.      Its  mere   memory   had   marred    many 

332 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  V, 

moments  of  joy.  It  had  been  like  conscience  to 
him.  Yes,  it  had  been  conscience.  •  He  would 
destroy  it. 

He  looked  round,  and  saw  the  knife  that  had 
stabbed  Basil  Hall  ward.  He  had  cleaned  it  many 
times,  till  there  was  no  stain  left  upon  it.  It  was 
bright,  and  glistened.  As  it  had  killed  the  painter, 
so  it  would  kill  the  painter's  work,  and  all  that  that 
meant.  It  would  kill  the  past,  and  when  that  was 
dead  he  would  be  free.  It  would  kill  this 
monstrous  soul-life,  and  without  its  hideous  warn- 
ings, he  would  be  at  peace.  He  seized  the  thing, 
and  stabbed  the  picture  with  it. 

There  was  a  cry  heard,  and  a  crash.  The  cry 
was  so  horrible  in  its  agony  that  the  frightened 
servants  woke,  and  crept  out  of  their  rooms.  Two 
gentlemen,  who  were  passing  in  the  Square  below, 
stopped,  and  looked  up  at  the  great  house.  They 
walked  on  till  they  met  a  policeman,  and  brought 
him  back.  The  man  rang  the  bell  several  times, 
but  there  was  no  answer.  Except  for  a  light  in 
one  of  the  top  windows,  the  house  was  all  dark. 
After  a  time,  he  went  away,  and  stood  in  an  ad- 
joining portico  and  watched. 

"Whose  house  is  that,  constable?"  asked  the 
elder  of  the  two  gentlemen. 

"  Mr.  Dorian  Gray's,  sir,"  answered  the  policeman. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  as  they  walked  away, 
and  sneered.  One  of  them  was  Sir  Henry  Ashtons' 
uncle. 

333 


THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRA  Y. 

Inside,  in  the  servants'  part  of  the  house,  the 
half-clad  domestics  were  talking  in  low  whispers  to 
each  other.  Old  Mrs.  Leaf  was  crying,  and  wring- 
ing her  hands.     Francis  was  as  pale  as  death. 

After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  got  the 
coachman  and  one  of  the  footmen  and  crept  up- 
stairs. They  knocked,  hut  there  was  no  reply. 
They  called  out.  Everything  was  still.  Finally, 
after  vainly  trying  to  force  the  door,  they  got  on  the 
roof,  and  dropped  down  on  to  the  balcony.  The 
windows  yielded  easily  :  their  bolts  were  old. 

When  they  entered,  they  found  hanging  upon 
the  wall  a  splendid  portrait  of  their  master  as  they 
had  last  seen  him,  in  all  the  wonder  of  his  exquisite 
youth  and  beauty.  Lying  on  the  floor  was  a  dead 
man,  in  evening  dress,  with  a  knife  in  his  heart. 
He  was  withered,  wrinkled,  and  loathsome  of  visage. 
It  was  not  till  they  had  examined  the  rings  that 
they  recognized  who  it  was. 


THE   END. 


334 


-  r ;  7 


A,